


Trinity

by cinaea, windsweptfic



Series: the Trinity universe [1]
Category: Captain America (2011), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Control, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, soul bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinaea/pseuds/cinaea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He's become the kind of monster he all but died trying to stop.</i>
</p>
<p>A D/s, soul-bond AU set in modern day. More than two years ago, Bucky Barnes was lost during a Howling Commandos mission and captured by HYDRA. He and fellow prisoners Clint and Natasha—all submissives—are treated as slaves and forced to carry out terrorist attacks for their masters. An attack by the Avengers enables their escape but leaves Bucky with an incomplete soul bond to two superheroes.</p>
<p>Vowing to never be imprisoned again, Bucky and his friends go on the run from HYDRA, from law enforcement, and from the two dominants who will do anything to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this is an AU in which Steve worked with the Invaders in the 1940s instead of the Howling Commandos, and was frozen as per canon. The HC, Bucky, Natasha, and Clint all have new backgrounds set during modern times.

**Prologue**

"You know that this is a _batshit crazy_ plan, right?"

Bucky grins fiercely at Dugan in response, tugging on the zipline as the train whistles in the distance. He's the youngest of the group by far, but that doesn't keep them from listening to his--admittedly sometimes harebrained--schemes. The cold winter wind screeches around them as he throws his pulley over the line, Falsworth and Jones following suit ahead of him.

"Yeah, but it's gonna work!" he shouts, blinking rapidly to clear away the snow settling on his eyelashes. "Hell, twenty bucks says we get that train stopped in two clicks."

"Make it thirty, and you have a deal."

Bucky can _hear_ Dernier rolling his eyes from his post at the comm station. As the train comes into view, he tugs again on the zipline before looking back at Dugan expectantly. The older man shakes his head with a fond smile and claps Bucky on the shoulder as he lifts his voice so Morita and Jones can hear as well, his tone _shifting_.

“ _Stay safe_.”

Bucky shivers as the command ripples down his spine, warm and comfortingly familiar. His manic grin softens into something gentler as he smiles back, touching two fingers to his temple.

"Yessir."

"Ready!" Morita calls, waving at them with the binoculars still pressed to his face. Bucky squints through the snow, watches the train enter the sweet spot on the tracks, the one that will give them their miniscule window of opportunity.

Ten.

"Go!"

Nine.

Falsworth leaps off the cliff into open air, whipping down the line toward the approaching train.

Bucky grips his own pulley tight, adrenalin pounding through him. The only way the plan will work is without the use of harnesses, so that they can drop to the train free of encumberment. The plan _has_ to work; thousands of lives depend on recovering the train's explosive cargo.

Eight.

"Go!"

Seven.

Jones hurtles down the zipline.

Bucky steps up in his place, teeth bared in a tight grin. He sees Falsworth drop onto the train across the gorge a few moments before the Brit's terse, _"Clear,"_ sounds through the comm unit in his ear.

Six.

"Go!"

Five.

Bucky inhales a sharp breath and _jumps_ , hurling himself off the cliff face. The wind tears at his clothes as he speeds down the line, unable to hold back a whoop of triumph that’s greeted by tolerant snorts in his earpiece. It's fucking glorious, even as his arms strain from the weight of himself and his gear, wetness tearing at his eyes and freezing the tip of his nose.

Four.

 _"Clear,"_ Jones says, a little breathlessly. Bucky watches him roll to his feet just as a glint of something bright two cars down catches his eye.

Three.

A high-pitched whistle screams through the gorge. Red and orange and grey-brown explode off the adjacent cliff face, and Bucky feels his stomach lurch--only to realize it's the _line_ that’s moving.

_"No, no, shit, **no** \--"_

The cable goes slack.

Two.

Bucky stares blankly at the swirl of white-grey above him, the black velvet of the night sky peeking through the snow. He mindlessly reaches out for a distant star as he falls, the wind whispering past, everything going serenely quiet as the tracks disappear into the distance.

_" **Bucky!** "_

One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a rewrite of something I started on my personal journal and half-abandoned. I have the rating at 'mature' for now, but it's subject to change in later chapters.
> 
> I added cinaea as a co-author because she is my darling beta/hammer-out-er/taskmistress, and it'll just be repetitive to tell you all how amazeballs she is every chapter. 
> 
> And I am lazy. Very lazy.


	2. Chapter 2

"Bucky..."

Bucky groans as Clint's plaintive whine stirs him from his doze, grimacing and trying to mash his face further against the pillow in the hope it'll stop. But he's only granted a few moments of peace before an elbow digs into his ribs, insistent and petulant, and it's just too damn early to put up a fight. He lets out a low grumble and obligingly scoots closer, nuzzling Clint's hair as he presses flush against the younger man's back.

Natasha mutters something unflattering in Russian at them from Clint's other side, but she creeps her hand over to settle on Bucky's boxer-clad hip all the same. They have things to do, duties to see to, but it's warm and comfortable and feels something like contentment.

A quiet beep shatters the peace.

Bucky surges up with a curse on his lips, yanking Clint back against him--away from Natasha, who's already scrambling to the other side of the bed. Her hair stands on end in frizzy curls, green eyes wide as the electricity jolts through her body, fingers clawing at the control collar around her neck.

"Tash--" Clint tries to move toward her, but Bucky pulls him back, keeping him pinned until the crackling stops, and Natasha slumps forward, sucking in a few shaky gasps of air.

As soon as it's over, Bucky leans forward, stretching out his bionic arm to smooth a hand through her hair; static sparks against the metal plating. The readout on the side of the collar blinks at them ominously, and Bucky grits his teeth when he sees the upped voltage.

"Fucker's impatient today," he mutters, more furious with himself than with their owner. Mentallo had said when they were to be up. Bucky should have made sure that they were early; the telepath has never let them miss a deadline.

"He's been bitchy ever since Paris," Natasha points out.

"He's always bitchy," Clint mutters around a jaw-cracking yawn, scratching at a still-healing scab on his hip as he slips off the bed and heads into the bathroom.

Bucky watches him go, mouth tightening at the clear limp in the younger man's gait. Despite Bucky’s careful planning--despite the perfectly placed explosives and the _flawless_ performance of the detonation charges--none of them had escaped the fallout from the Peace Summit unscathed. Bucky is nursing three broken ribs and a sprained wrist; Natasha still has bruises coloring her left side from shoulder to hip. The two of them had taken the worst of the hits, infighters to Clint’s long-range cover, and protected him as much as possible, but there was only so much they could do against a furious Norse god who could also _fly_.

Thor and the Hulk had intercepted them on the outskirts of Paris, the other Avengers attending to the ruins of the Élysée Palace. But even just the two heroes had proven a hard match; the Three had barely escaped the wrath of both god and enraged green behemoth. They'd ducked out of sight just long enough for Bucky to wrench open a grate that dropped them into the Métro, where they lost themselves in the maze of tunnels long enough to escape detection and emerge from the subway system with the other frightened pedestrians.

"You’d better hurry up if you want a shower that isn't freezing," Natasha says.

Bucky blinks away the bitter memories, focusing on the sound of running water; Clint's decided to steal all the hot water again.

Natasha allows him another cursory check of her collar--metal fingertips brushing over the wires embedded into her skin, skimming across the scars from a different, older collar--before climbing off the bed. Bucky carefully levers himself off as well while she tugs her camisole over her head, swapping it for a bra and a simple black t-shirt.

"You're good with playing guard dog today?" he asks, eyeing the yellow splotches that paint her side. He hates sending her to Mentallo alone; she sometimes comes back withdrawn and unreachable. But he knows before she answers that the question is useless.

"If you can keep an eye on _him_ ," she dodges, jerking her chin in the direction of the bathroom.

"I'll keep him from fucking up his arm worse at the range, if that's what you mean," Bucky replies, shaking his head and casting a longing look back at the bed. What he wouldn't give to be able to sink back into the blankets, curled up with his two companions in the only place he really feels human anymore. "No guarantees about him mouthing off, though."

Natasha snorts. "No one can keep him from mouthing off. I've had three years, and I still can't get him to shut up."

Bucky chuckles and casts her a vague salute, as she waggles her fingers at him and slips out the door. He manages to make it to the shower before Clint uses up all the hot water--but not all the soap, and Clint's grin is unrepentant when Bucky grumpily smacks him on the hip and crowds him out from under the spray of water. They haven't had any real directives since the Peace Summit other than ‘go train,’ but they still make quick work of getting dressed, wary of their owner's short temper.

They pick up their weapons from the locker, the nameless HYDRA guard fetching them with a narrow-eyed look. Mentallo's embedded directives keep the Three from hurting him, and the collars keep them from hurting the higher-ups whose voices have been linked in, but Bucky and his companions have no such prohibition regarding the rank-and-file soldiers. All Mentallo cares about is whether his toys can function; if their functioning requires them to break the arm of a minion who tries to grope Natasha, well, it's been made clear that he considers it an acceptable course of action.

The quartermaster returns with their gear, leering at Clint as he hands over the weapons. Clint is oblivious, fussing over the tension of his bowstring, but Bucky fixes the man with a cold, hard look as he pointedly slings his rifle over his shoulder.

The guard only lasts a few moments before clearing his throat and retreating into the locker, avoiding Bucky's gaze.

Clint's still muttering when Bucky shoves his shoulder, reaching out to ruffle the younger man's still-damp hair.

He grins when Clint disgruntledly bats his hand away. "Come on, let's get you down to the range. You've been a centimeter off ever since Paris."

Clint scowls, baring his teeth as he follows Bucky out the door. "You take that back, Barnes. That is lies and _slander_. It's a couple millimeters, _max._ "

"Whatever you say," Bucky agrees placidly. He doesn't mind that Clint's punch to his flesh-and-blood arm manages to skate across a bruise; even the façade of normalcy is better than nothing at all. He shoves back good-naturedly, content to pretend for a while that they could be anywhere other than here.

They don't get far. They turn a sharp corner and run right into a tall black man. Bucky takes an instinctive, hopping step backward. Clint isn't so lucky--his attempt to move away is halted by metal fingers curling in the front of his shirt, one of the man's bionic arms reaching out to hold him firmly in place. The arms are attached to a metal chestplate that makes the man’s upper body seem more machine than human. Cool eyes glance over at Bucky, who stiffens to attention as fear kicks low in his gut, barely able to keep himself from yanking Clint from the man's grip.

"You should watch where you're going," Paul Ebersol chides. His mouth curves into a smirk as his gaze flicks up and down Bucky's body, appreciative and hungry.

Mentallo's partner of sorts, Ebersol is the one who pieced Bucky back together after his fall. He created the bionic arm that has replaced the one that was crushed against unforgiving stone, and he never misses an opportunity to remind Bucky of the fact. While the other dominants don't dare damage Mentallo's toys, Ebersol always pushes, toeing the line, looking for leverage to make Bucky _his_.

"I promise to do better next time. Sir," Clint replies blandly. The honorific is tacked onto the end of the statement like an afterthought, and he manages to make it sound more like an appellation of scorn than a sign of respect.

Bucky clenches his hands into fists, wishing he could tell Clint to shut up without being too obvious. He loves that Clint has somehow retained the ability to fight despite spending five years as Mentallo's pet, but the younger man makes it damnably hard to keep a low profile sometimes.

Not that Bucky can ever keep a low profile when it comes to Ebersol. The man’s fixation on him has only grown stronger since he realized how painfully easy Bucky is to break.

Ebersol's smirk widens, and he holds Bucky’s eyes an extra beat before turning to focus on Clint.

“ _Kneel_.”

Bucky chokes on a stifled sound of protest when Ebersol's voice shifts and drops into the lower, smoother register of a dominant.

A dazed expression steals across Clint's face at the command, and he drops to his knees immediately, graceful and relaxed. All of the tension drains from his body--and god, when was the last time that he'd been dropped? that any of them had been dropped?--as he looks up at Ebersol with a dreamy, adoring expression that makes Bucky want to scream. It's been so long since any of them have been allowed to let go and just exist and _feel_ , and Bucky would be jealous if he didn't know exactly what kind of dominant Ebersol is--and isn't. 

"Sir?" Clint murmurs, waiting patient and hopeful for an order. His earlier insolence has been stripped away, replaced by the overwhelming, mindless compulsion to please--their bodies' instinctive reaction to a dominant's voice.

Ebersol runs his fingers through Clint's hair as he looks back at Bucky with a smirk, uncaring of the way Clint leans into the touch.

He doesn't want Clint. He never does.

"Don't look so mistrustful, Bucky," he says mockingly, drawing out the name as if savoring it. "I won't do anything to your boy that he doesn't want." He looks back down at Clint, cupping his cheek in one metal hand. "Isn't that right, little soldier?"

Clint hums agreeably, eyes fluttering shut as Ebersol strokes a thumb across his cheek.

Bucky grinds his teeth together. "He can't really say what he does or doesn't want right now, _sir_ ," he bites out.

Ebersol chuckles, combing his fingers through Clint's hair, gentle tugs guiding Clint's head closer to his thigh. "No, I suppose he can't," he agrees, looking at Bucky with dark, half-lidded eyes. "But _you_ can."

He brushes his fingertips over Clint's lips teasingly. When Clint's tongue darts out to taste the jointed metal, Bucky breaks--just like they’d both known he would.

"Sir," he chokes out, taking a jerky step forward.

Ebersol's lips curve up smugly. "Yes, Bucky?"

Bucky swallows, lowering his eyes and bowing his head. "I'll do what you want," he says softly. There isn't a trace of defiance in his voice, not for this, not when Clint is on the line. "I want to. Please, sir."

Clint lets out a sad, confused whine as he's shoved away, sitting back on his heels as Ebersol's arm snakes out to haul Bucky closer.

Fingers twist painfully in Bucky’s hair as his head is yanked back, a bruising kiss pressed to his mouth. He closes his eyes and parts his lips, docile and unresisting, and doesn't even shiver when Ebersol leans in to breathe against his ear.

"You will come to my quarters tonight. You will be naked by the time I get there, and you won't be going back to your room until the morning. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Bucky murmurs. It isn't the first time Ebersol's used the others to get to him.

He knows it won't be the last.

Teeth sink into his ear, and then Ebersol's presence is abruptly gone. Bucky opens his eyes just in time to see the man disappear around the corner and allows himself a moment to shudder in dread before Clint draws back his attention with a quiet whimper.

Clint's looking in the direction Ebersol went with a lost expression, and Bucky immediately sinks to his knees beside him and pulls him into his arms. He silently curses Ebersol in every language he can think of as he gently strokes Clint's back, making soothing nonsense sounds in the back of his throat.

"What did I do wrong?" Clint asks, his voice small. He's shaking helplessly, goosebumps rising on his arms as withdrawal starts to seep in, and Bucky has to take a moment to force down his rage at Ebersol leaving Clint like this. The high of being dropped is too intense to be yanked out of; the warmth and contentment is replaced with an acute feeling of loss, like ice water thrown on sun-warmed skin.

He exhales a controlled, steady breath. "You didn't do anything wrong, _solnyshko_ ," he finally says softly, knowing even as he speaks them that the words won't do much. He isn't a dominant; he doesn't have the ability to calm Clint down like he needs.

Ebersol hadn't given any reassurances, hadn't told Clint that he was pleased with him or that he’d done well. Bucky knows full well how agonizing that kind of abandonment is, how desperate and ashamed you feel for not being good enough, not doing well enough, hating yourself for being unable to live up to your dominant's expectations, for being unable to make them happy.

They stay there for what has to be too long, Clint slowly ceasing his trembling as Bucky holds him close, giving him the physical contact he so desperately needs.

The range time they were supposed to put in isn't possible anymore--not with Clint like this--so when Clint finally goes limp, too exhausted to offer resistance, Bucky tilts his head up to look into red-rimmed blue eyes.

"Come on," he murmurs. "Let's get you to Mentallo."

Clint nods listlessly and allows Bucky to pull him to his feet and guide him in the direction of their owner's workroom.

They make their way slowly through the base. Any looks sent their way are quickly redirected as Bucky glares death at anyone who gets too close, his bionic arm wrapped tight around Clint's waist.

Mentallo's workshop is a large, repurposed laboratory scattered with tables full of gadgets and files. Screens cover the east wall; half of the monitors are tuned to news channels, while the rest display two-week-old security footage from the Summit.

Bucky determinedly averts his gaze from the sight of the Avengers helping retrieve bloodied victims from the wreckage. He couldn't spare the civilians then ( _wouldn't_ spare them, _didn't choose_ to spare them), and he can't help them now. All he can do is take care of Natasha and Clint.

Natasha's standing guard in a corner of the lab, alert and dangerous, but the cool mask on her face drops as Bucky escorts Clint into the room. She takes a half-step forward before she catches herself, returning to her position with a barely concealed expression of worry.

"It was Ebersol, master," Bucky explains at Mentallo's sharp look, guiding Clint around the tables with gentle hands.

Their owner's eyes narrow in irritation as he takes in their respective states. "That man has no concept of keeping his hands off other people's things," he mutters, looking Clint over with a sour expression. He shakes his head sharply. "Come here, the both of you."

They obey meekly, and Clint sinks to his knees at Mentallo's feet with his head bowed. When their owner runs his fingers through his mussed hair, the effect is immediate: the tension bleeds from Clint's shoulders, and a soft sigh escapes his lips as he nudges his head into Mentallo's touch like a kitten begging to be stroked.

" _Clint_ ," Mentallo says, and all three of them shiver at the commanding tone of his voice, the kind of inflection that can bring them all to their knees with a single word. "Clint, look at me."

Clint lifts his head obediently, eyes hopeful.

Mentallo strokes a hand down the side of his face and the curve of his neck, bringing him back from the precipice of withdrawal with light, soothing touches. "You did well. I'm very pleased with you."

His tone holds as much warmth as a freezer, but the words work nonetheless. Clint's entire body relaxes into an easy, relieved slump, and an elated look brightens his face.

Mentallo motions to Bucky impatiently, grabbing his hand when he doesn't move fast enough and placing it on Clint's shoulder instead of his own.

"You did very well," Mentallo repeats. "Now let yourself be taken care of. Go with Bucky; let him take care of you."

"Yes, master," Clint murmurs with a blissed-out smile. He looks up at Bucky adoringly, and Bucky has to swallow back the bile in his throat as he helps his friend to his feet. He wraps an arm around Clint's waist, pulling him close as he guides him over to the pile of blankets and pillows in the corner.

Back at the monitors, Mentallo mutters something about them being useless for the next few hours, while Natasha quietly shifts places so that she can be between them and the door while still standing guard.

Bucky lays down, wrapping his arms around Clint as the younger man nuzzles against his neck with a quiet mumble, smoothing Clint’s hair down and finally allowing himself to feel the helpless rage that’s been building since Natasha’s shock that morning. It’s a fury he’s become intimately acquainted with in the last two years, so constant that he can almost forget it’s there--except in moments like this. Except when he catches a glimpse of the headline over an image of the Peace Summit wreckage that says “Terrorists Massacre Hundreds,” and knows that he's become the kind of monster he all but died trying to stop.

Bucky’s only suffered Mentallo’s impersonal tyranny and Ebersol’s sadistic games for twenty-seven months. He shakes inside when he allows himself to think of the half a decade Clint’s spent at their hands, a perfect tool for cold-blooded assassinations and easy prey for their perverted idea of a dominant-submissive relationship.

Clint deserves a dom he actually trusts: someone who will value him, someone who actually _cares_. And Bucky knows that Clint's never had that, never been truly taken care of. He's never known the warm, happy synergy that Bucky had with Dugan and the Howling Commandos, who never once did him wrong--and who always, always looked after him.

Bucky looks at Natasha over Clint's shoulder. Her green eyes burn with the same anger that simmers in his gut.

Someday, they'll be free. Someday they'll tear off their chains, and they'll never be toys to anyone, ever again.

And on that day they will make their slavers pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _lapushka_ = little paw  
>  _solnyshko_ = little sun


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous chapter note redacted: Cin is way more than beta-taskmistress, she is hardcore awesome full-on co-author (and still amazeballs).
> 
> Also, this got long.

Bucky awakens to fear that isn't his own.

"How did they find us? This base is _secure_ \--"

The panic in Mentallo's voice is what fully yanks Bucky from sleep, tightening his arm protectively around Clint's waist. He lifts his head from the warmth of the younger man's neck to see Natasha bearing down on them, a grim look on her face.

"Apparently not."

And _that_ has Bucky up in an instant, Ebersol's voice jolting through him like a warning spark of electricity. He looks over to find Ebersol and Mentallo standing in front of the wall of monitors, watching the chaos flickering across the screens. 

Adrenalin stabs into Bucky's veins as he glimpses a white star emblazoned on a broad chest. He jacknifes into a sitting position, reaching down to shake Clint roughly awake. Natasha tosses him his rifle, and he snatches it out of the air and hooks it over his shoulder, looking down into Clint's sleep-hazy eyes.

"Up," he says tensely. "The Avengers've found us."

Clint curses, instantly alert. Bucky’s relieved to see that post-drop sleep has cleared some of the tension from around Clint eyes, but the makeshift bed hasn’t done his injured leg any favors, if the way he stumbles to his feet is any indication. Natasha passes him his bow and half-full quiver. 

Bucky draws a gun from one of the holsters strapped to his thighs. "Who's here?" he demands. "America. Who else?"

“Iron Man and Mockingbird. I think I spotted Panther, too, but no sign of Thor or the Hulk yet,” Natasha reports with a nod toward the monitors. Her voice is flat and hard with worry, but she draws her pistol and combat knife with her usual steady skill. 

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses, taking stock of their weapons. There’s no time to go to the locker for their mission armaments, but they’ve only got training gear. They’re woefully under-armed to challenge the Avengers, whom he would normally suggest facing with rifles and semi-automatics and possibly even a grenade launcher. Definitely some form of body armor: if not the high-necked tac vests that conceal their collars, at least chest pieces to protect vital organs. 

They look to Mentallo in anticipation of orders. The man is still muttering to himself about the impregnability of the base, but at least he’s started to grab items off the various tables.

Bucky glances back at the screens and calculates the intruders’ distance from Mentallo’s escape route; it’s not looking good. They have to leave _now_ , but Mentallo’s still packing. He bites his tongue, knowing better than to risk speaking to their master in this state, but painfully aware of the need for action.

Natasha and Clint shift impatiently, hands tight on their weapons as they watch the Avengers on the security feeds. Bucky can tell the moment Natasha decides to risk Mentallo’s temper. He sees her take a breath to speak.

“Sir,” he interjects quickly, taking a jerky step toward Ebersol. The man looks down at him with an arched eyebrow, still smug and sure of himself despite the chaos descending on them. "We're running out of time," Bucky continues lowly, tilting his head toward Mentallo as he meets Ebersol's gaze. He carefully doesn't look at Natasha, but he can _feel_ her glare.

"I don't need him to make it out of here alive," Ebersol shrugs, a smirk playing around his mouth. Bucky grits his teeth.

"But we do," he says, struggling to keep his voice quiet even as everything in him screams to _move_. He would let Mentallo die in an instant--but if the psychic doesn't leave, neither do they. "Please, sir. _Please_."

Ebersol's smirk widens into a grin. He claps Bucky on the shoulder, fingers trailing lingeringly down the front of his chest before he moves toward his partner.

“That’s enough, Mentallo. They’ll be at the hangar soon.”

Mentallo curses and throws down everything in his hands, visibly radiating fury. "Damn it all to _hell_. Fine, you three--" he doesn't even look at them as they snap to attention, "--clear the route. _Move_."

Natasha and Clint surge forward at the order, automatically taking point. Bucky watches them go as Mentallo and Ebersol follow, leaving him to bring up the rear.

"Stay safe," he whispers.

The corridor is quiet; the fighting’s still quite a ways off. The guards outside Mentallo’s workshop are nowhere to be seen: either run off to face the Avengers, or run away altogether. Bucky's lips curl in a bitter smirk. At least the soldiers have the _option_ to abandon their posts.

It’s not just the control collars hardwired into his and the others' brain stems that keep them in HYDRA's service--they’d have found a way to get the drop on their master long ago, if that were the case. It's Mentallo's telepathically-embedded compulsions that keep them loyal: keep them from killing him, or hurting him, or leaving him. They can fight through the agony of the collars; they can't escape the commands stamped onto their minds.

However, the compulsions only protect the psychic. Bucky looks at Ebersol’s unprotected back ahead of him, narrowing his eyes calculatingly. The man is relaxed, hands in his pockets as he strolls alongside the livid Mentallo.

Bucky could kill the cyborg right now. It would be so easy to put a bullet in the back of his head--to rid them all of even _one_ tormentor. 

But that would just leave them to face their furious master and his terrifyingly inventive mind. Bucky's all too familiar with the kinds of punishment Mentallo would inflict for insubordination of that degree; what he can do to them, what he can make them _do_ \--

He cuts off that train of thought sharply. 

Bucky eyes Clint’s gait as the young man turns the corner ahead, noting that he’s hiding the limp pretty well now. Thor’s hammer had left a spectacular bruise; nearly Clint’s entire thigh had swelled up. They’re all grateful the bone wasn’t broken, but it’s been a long time healing, and Bucky’s worried about him having to face the Avengers again in this state. 

Hell, they’re all still injured; between Clint’s leg, Natasha’s ribs, and his wrist, they’re just lucky Mentallo hasn’t sent them on missions for the past two weeks. The psychic's spent his days shouting at HYDRA officials in videoconferences, instead, plotting what he claims will be their biggest target yet. Bucky shudders to think of what could be bigger than a Peace Summit; of what Mentallo might decide to do next-- 

He's just rounding the first corner when he hears the gunshot.

Bucky surges forward at the sound of Clint's surprised shout, fear pounding in his chest. The Avengers couldn't have possibly made it this far already--

He skids to a halt when he reaches the scene. There's blood pooling beneath Mentallo's head on the concrete floor. Bucky stares at the crimson puddle for a long, blank moment. His attention is only drawn away when Ebersol moves, holstering the gun in his hand, and comprehension hits like a physical blow.

Mentallo is dead.

Natasha lifts her gaze from their late owner's body, meeting Bucky's eyes. There's a wild, desperate hope on her face that he's never seen before--an emotion that he'd thought had been long beaten out of her. Her attention shifts to Ebersol; he understands instantly. With the compulsions gone, there’s nothing to stop them from fighting their way free. _Free._ If they can get the drop on Ebersol before he uses the remote--

The tell-tale beep sounds even as they’re lifting their guns, Clint yanking an arrow from his quiver. They barely move an inch before electricity jolts through them, sharp and blinding. Bucky sucks in a rattling gasp as his pistol falls from nerveless fingers; it's only desperation that keeps his feet under him, helpless tremors shaking his body. 

They have to fight through this. They _have_ to.

Ebersol tsks as he toys with the remote, turning the damnable device over in his hand with a smile. "Did you really think I would remove the owner without being prepared to keep the pets in line?" he chides.

Clint's already on the ground, clutching his bad leg while the fingers of his free hand inch futilely toward his dropped bow and scattered arrows, lying too far out of reach. Natasha's still on her feet, but just barely; she grits her teeth and takes a step, struggling to raise her gun with a spasming arm. Ebersol clucks his tongue and Bucky _screams_ as the voltage ratchets up exponentially, sinking to his knees with his arms wrapped around himself. 

Mentallo had never turned the voltage up so high--but Mentallo never needed to. 

Bucky watches helplessly as Natasha's legs fail her, causing her to collapse to the floor next to Clint. Her gun skitters across the concrete, dropped from a hand shaking too badly to hold a grip.

"You can't--" Bucky gasps for air, raw hate pulsing through him. "HYDRA will--they'll kill you--"

Ebersol lifts an eyebrow.

"Who do you think ordered Mentallo's death? Any terrorist can blow up a building, Bucky. HYDRA has bigger plans for the Three--and now they have _me_ to control you."

Natasha lets out a low, animalistic snarl, lifting her head. Her eyes glitter razor-sharp green as she bares her teeth, red curls falling across her face. Beside her, Clint's trying to go for the knife in his boot, his fingers trembling so badly he can't even get a steady hold.

"Never," she hisses. "We will _never_ obey you."

Ebersol favors her with an indulgent smirk as Clint finally manages to get the knife free. His thumb strokes over the controller and pain bursts at the base of Bucky's skull, whiting out his vision.

He hears voices screaming and he's pretty sure one of them is his own.

"I may not have the control this freak had--" there's a dull crack as Ebersol's boot impacts Mentallo's side, "--at least, not _yet_. He may have held you captive with his mind, but when you wear the collars I've made, you'll kneel at my feet _willingly_."

The shudder that runs through Bucky's body has nothing to do with the aftershocks jerking down his nerves. He looks up at Ebersol mutely, shaking his head in hollow denial.

"You're either going to submit, or you're going to die," Ebersol says, voice matter-of-fact and patient. He holds Bucky's gaze for a few moments before looking back at Clint and Natasha with an arched brow. 

They're still fighting to reach their weapons, lips curled back in pain and desperation--and Bucky knows they'd rather die than submit to another monster. He knows that. 

He looks at their helpless struggling and feels despair pulling him back under, dragging him down where he can't speak, can't breathe.

Ebersol turns back to him, a cruel smile curving his lips. "You know how this works, don’t you, Bucky? You know I always get my way. Tell them."

Bucky stares up at him impotently, teeth chattering, and considers the magnitude of the betrayal suggested. He recalls heartfelt words, whispered against damp skin after the worst days; remembers the atrocities committed in each others’ names, and the vows of ' _never again_ ' and ' _wish I was dead_.' He pictures their defiant eyes open and staring, sightless in death. 

And he breaks yet again.

"Stop," he whispers, raspy and hoarse. He drags his gaze to meet Natasha’s and Clint's; sees their eyes widen and fix on him. " _Stop_. Please, stop."

"I don’t think they understand," Ebersol purrs. "Should I teach them another lesson? You've already learned--how much do you think it will take before they do as well?" Metal fingers flick over the remote, changing settings; removing Bucky's collar from the equation.

He chokes on a sob, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He can’t lose them. Even if it means condemning all of them to another eternity of slavery, he can’t let them die. 

He's too selfish for that.

"Don't leave me," he rasps, voice breaking. "Please, I can't--I _can't_." 

He opens his eyes, cheeks wet, to see their faces twist with anguish--and god, he wants to cut out his traitorous tongue. But they pull away from the fallen weapons and, shaking, curl into fetal balls on the floor.

The shocks cease. Clint covers his face--Bucky thinks he hears him sob--and Natasha rolls onto her back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Struggling to force his muscles to cooperate, Bucky crawls past Ebersol on his hands and knees, ignoring the man's chuckle as he drops down before the two of them. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, reaching out his hands automatically before pulling back, not daring to touch. 

“Hush,” Natasha mumbles. She reaches out briefly to curl her fingers around his wrist, squeezing in gentle reassurance before pushing herself to an unsteady crouch. She nudges Clint's shoulder with the heel of her palm. "Get up, both of you."

"Five more minutes," Clint slurs into his arm. Natasha snorts and prods him sharply in the side with two fingers, making him yelp. Bucky spots Clint’s wry grin as he unfolds and pulls himself upright, managing a small, brittle smile of his own.

"Don't you look pretty on your knees for me?" Ebersol chuckles above them, drawing back their attention. Bucky flinches, the words falling like blows. He forces himself to look at his companions, terrified of the betrayal he knows he’ll see in their eyes. But they’ve already shifted back into coolly emotionless competence, faces carefully blank as they look up at their new owner.

“Yes, master,” Natasha replies neutrally.

“Very good. Now pick up those weapons,” Ebersol kicks Bucky’s gun toward him, “We’ve wasted too much time here already. Start moving-- _all_ of you.” He shoots a glare at Bucky, who’s stepped aside to let Natasha and Clint take point again. “I’ll be bringing up the rear myself. I’m sure I don’t have to warn any of you not to try that business again, do I?”

“No, master,” Bucky mutters. He follows the other two, an itch between his shoulder blades from having Ebersol at his back.

The hangar is a war zone.

The Avengers haven't yet reached the trio of helicopters, but it's only a matter of time. A few dozen HYDRA soldiers are facing off against the trespassers, but they're no match for the superheroes: Captain America and Mockingbird are decimating in hand-to-hand while Iron Man provides support from the air. The other three Avengers are nowhere in sight, which has unease curling in Bucky's stomach.

"I'll take the Tin Man," Clint volunteers, yanking an arrow from his quiver and nocking it as they crouch in the entryway, Ebersol lurking impatiently behind them. "I'll see if I can ground him, even the playing field. The other two...." He casts them a look.

Bucky exchanges a glance with Natasha, grateful for the adrenaline of battle that lets them fall back into their easy camaraderie. This is what they know; this is what they’re best at. She nods briefly and throws her hand out in a rapid toss of rock-paper-scissors: she throws scissors. Bucky throws rock. He swears.

"I've got them, then," Natasha says. "Bucky, get the helicopter going. I'll take Cap and the bird."

They split up, Clint sprinting in the direction of the hovering Tony Stark as Natasha wades into the fray. Bucky shouts after her as he veers toward the chopper, "You're a fucking _cheater_!"

Natasha smiles beatifically and hurls a knife at Captain America's head. 

Bucky skirts the melee, throwing himself inside the cockpit of one of the Black Hawks. He races through startup, wincing at the loud, high-pitched whine as the engines power up. 

"C’mon, c'mon," he mutters, looking anxiously out the windows to see if any of the Avengers have turned their attention to the helicopter. The series of explosions overhead and the flash of repulsor fire at the other end of the hangar mean Clint’s holding his own. Natasha and Mockingbird are trading blows and kicks almost too fast for his eyes to track, but he spots her somersault over a soldier’s back and slam her boot into the bird's face. He grins and turns back to the control panel, powering up all the systems and releasing the throttle on the rotors.

After a few seconds the propellers begin to ponderously turn, and he slips out of the cockpit to scan for threats.

He spots the incoming red-and-white blur of the Captain’s shield and leaps up just in time to deflect it from the main rotor with his bionic arm. The rattling vibrations from the impact make him wince but he shakes out his shoulder as he tracks the shield’s path back to its owner. The Avenger is gaping at him, so he smirks and holds up his arm, waggling the metal fingers as he raises his other hand to fire at the man’s head. The recoil makes his sprained wrist throb, but the pain is worth the look of surprise on the Captain’s face as he ducks behind his shield.

With the increasing din of the chopper, Bucky can’t hear anything from Clint’s direction. He looks to the far end of the hangar to find Clint already running his way, firing a handgun, the quiver on his back empty. Bucky follows the direction of Clint’s shots just in time to see Iron Man hit Natasha with repulsor fire from above.

His heart stops in his chest as she's thrown more than a dozen yards by the blast.

" _No!_ "

It takes three seconds to shove open the helicopter's cargo door and dive inside. Another two and he’s wrenched the anti-material rifle from its mount on the wall, throwing himself down on the floor of the Black Hawk and taking aim as Iron Man lands beside Tasha. He doesn’t even hear himself shouting over the thundering propellers as he fires the anti-tank round straight into Stark's back.

Bucky doesn’t wait to assess where he hit. The instant the bullet leaves the barrel he’s throwing the heavy rifle aside and scrambling out of the chopper, pistol in hand. Out of the corner of his eye he spots Clint duck out of the way of Captain America’s shield. He swings his bow around in the same fluid motion, jabbing at the underside as it passes over him to destabilize the disc's angular momentum. It plows into the ground a few feet away, and Bucky has a flash of bursting pride before he’s closing on Stark, who staggers around to face him.

"Get the fuck away from her!" he roars as he hurls himself at the Avenger. His momentum carries them both to the ground, and he straddles the suit, jamming his pistol against one glowing eye socket; willing to bet it’s vulnerable to his armor-piercing rounds at point blank.

Sparks fizzle and pop from the gouges in Stark's armor, the suit apparently rendered useless for now. The large hole at the left shoulder is wet with blood, but Stark's still conscious, his mechanized voice grating and furious as he spits, "You’re them--you’re the Three-- You _murderers_ \--"

Bucky bares his teeth and tightens his finger on the trigger.

"No! _Stop!_ "

Every muscle in his body freezes.

The sounds of fighting fade to a dull roar in the back of Bucky's mind as warmth unfurls in his chest, blossoming outward in soothing tendrils that ease away tensions he didn't even know he had. His death-grip on the pistol loosens as an easy complacency steals over him, eyes sliding halfway shut as he lifts his head to seek out the voice's source. In the midst of gunfire and shouting and explosions he feels inexplicably _safe_ , and it's such a rare emotion that he's desperate to offer his gratitude, everything shunted off to the side as he focuses on that voice, and that voice alone.

Captain America's hand is still outstretched in supplication. The fear and panic in his shout are mirrored in his eyes, so wide and blue and _open_ that Bucky just wants to lose himself in them for days.

The sound of metal shifting draws Bucky's attention back to the man beneath him, and he blinks down hazily as Stark's faceplate slides back. The awed look that Stark offers him has a slow, helpless smile curling his lips, something inside of him squirming with delight that he's worthy of such an expression.

"Oh my god," Stark breathes, his voice reverent. "You...you're..."

He lifts one gauntleted hand to trace cool metal fingertips down the line of Bucky's jaw, the touch gentle and reverent. Bucky leans into it with a pleased hum, eyes fluttering shut.

"Kill him!" 

Ebersol's voice drifts to Bucky faintly, distant and muted like it's coming from miles away. The order twinges something at the back of his mind, but he can't be bothered to pay it attention. Stark's fingers are combing through his hair, careful and tender despite their being metal, and he looks foolishly pleased when Bucky presses into his hand with a contented sigh.

_"Kill him!"_

The collar around his neck beeps quietly, and then there's only pain.

"No, no, _no_ \--"

Stark's shouting echoes distantly in Bucky's ears, drowned out by the blood pounding in his temples as agony tears through his body. He contorts violently atop the downed suit of armor, the fingers of his good hand scrabbling at the sharp nicks in the chestpiece until the thick smell of iron and copper permeates his senses. 

"Jesus Christ, a collar, you have a _control collar_ \--"

Fire floods through Bucky's veins as he thrashes in a desperate, helpless attempt to escape the pain. He throws up to the side and it's only when he chokes on vomit that he realizes he's been screaming the entire time.

"Jarvis, trigger localized EMP!"

Bucky sobs brokenly as the body beneath him shifts, an arm wrapping tight around his waist.

"Fuck the suit! He's in _pain_ , Jarvis--do it _now!_ "

The Iron Man suit hums against Bucky's skin, the vibrations grinding shards of glass into his pores. He struggles to pull away but the arm around him keeps him pinned, locked in place. He sucks in a choking breath of air to scream--

And then it's over.

Bucky's teeth chatter in the aftershocks of pain, his body twitching out of his control in jerky spasms. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, clinging to the darkness and the white noise roaring in his ears. His senses are disjointed, misfiring from the dump of external stimuli and impossibly overtaxed.

"It's okay," he dreams he hears, the voice low and gentle. "It's alright; you're going to be alright. We'll take care of you. I swear, we will take care of you."

Bucky pries his eyes apart as a tickle of recognition flickers in the back of his mind, trying to focus on the red-gold metal beneath his cheek. He drags his gaze up to meet the desperately relieved eyes of Tony Stark, something warm and reassuring curling in his stomach even as his body trembles in disorientation. 

Tony's there. Tony will make everything better.

"--out of here _now!_ "

Bucky lets out a strangled sound as a hand wraps around his arm, tugging and trying to pull him _away_. He doesn't want to leave. He wants to stay, stay where it's safe.

"Let go," Natasha's voice snarls, low and feral. "I swear to god, I will cut your fucking arm off--"

"The suit's internal wiring is fried, I _can't_ \-- Let him go! You're hurting him!"

Someone wrenches the arm from around his waist and Bucky's being pulled up, half-draped across Clint's shoulders as he tries to stand on shaking legs, not comprehending what's going on. Clint's eyes are wild with hope, and Natasha's glaring down at Tony.

Natasha, whose collar is no longer blinking its constant, silent warning.

A glance at Clint reveals the same. Their collars are deactivated. They're free. They're _free_ , they can escape; they can finally leave this hell behind, they have to get out of here _now_ \--

"You can't take him--I will _find_ you, I swear I will--"

The terror on Tony's face is a punch to the gut, twisting Bucky's insides into knots. While Natasha turns away with a snort, Clint tugging Bucky in the direction of the hangar's exit--all he can see is Tony. He knows he has to help the others get out. He _has_ to make sure they're safe. It's all he's wanted for the past two years; it's the one thing he's been able to cling to as he's fought and killed and murdered, it's been for them, it's all been for them--

"Don't leave," Tony chokes. _"Please."_

Bucky keens and tries to shove away from Clint, reaching for Tony as his desire to stay with the man constricts his chest like a vise. He loves Clint and Natasha but he _needs_ Tony, he can't leave him, not like this, not now, not _ever_ \--

The butt of Natasha's pistol flashes in Bucky's peripheral vision, pain exploding in his skull.

And then there's only darkness.


	4. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks. We're back in the game and excited for the next chapters!
> 
> (windswept: Also the delay was totally my fault. And the whole reason this chapter finally got done was because of Cin, so all the credit goes there, yo.)

The silence is unnerving.

There's no heavy bass pounding through the walls as Steve walks down the corridor to Tony's lab. The now-familiar strains of AC/DC and Metallica have been conspicuously absent the past two weeks (sixteen days and eleven hours, give or take twenty minutes), leaving the Tower's penthouse feeling unnaturally hollow. The absence makes the soft click of Steve's shoes against the hardwood floor impossibly loud, and he can't help but feel a sense of relief as he reaches the lab, hearing Tony's voice as the door slides open for him.

"...for christ's sake, Jarvis, it's the SIS, not the Stark Industries mainframe. I hacked into their systems last time I was in London from my _cell phone_ , the Brits' idea of technological security is just laughable--"

_"Establishing a sustained and undetectable data stream involves a bit more finesse than hijacking a few street lights, sir."_

Jarvis's usually mild tone is edged with irritation, and as he steps further into the chaos of Tony's lab, absently adjusting his tie, Steve can see why. It's even more of a mess than when he had left two hours ago, a new bundle of wires snaking across the floor, tangling with the ones already there. The remaining four empty windows are now covered in scribbles that are meaningless to Steve, even if he does know that they're the infancy of an impossibly complex search algorithm.

A half-million dollars worth of new computer monitors line the far wall, flickering every second between live CCTV feeds from all over Europe, both public and private channels. Tony's standing in the middle of three massive, interactive screens, muttering to himself as he uses one hand to flick through the streams of data, his left arm cradled in a soft sling. The ever-present dark circles beneath his eyes are faded, buried beneath thick layers of makeup, but the lines of worry around his mouth remain.

"Tony," Steve calls. "We need to get down to the boardroom."

"Five more minutes," Tony replies absently, dismissing one interface--Steve's pretty sure he saw the Russian word for 'confidential'--with a flick of his wrist and bringing up another immediately. Only two of the three screens display what he's working on. The third never changes; it remains fixed on a picture of a young man in fatigues, a rifle slung easily over one shoulder as he grins brightly at the camera.

All they had, at first, was an image taken from Jarvis' recording through the Iron Man suit. It's clearer than the blurred, pixellated one in SHIELD's databases for the Three, and it was enough for Tony to start looking. He ran the image through every facial recognition database on the planet, hacking the ones he couldn't cajole or bribe himself access to, and Steve didn't raise a whisper of protest.

Captain America would have. Captain America _should_ have. But Steve can't be Captain America right now. When they realized they had to fight to get James back, he'd sworn to do whatever it took to take care of James. Because he is Steven Grant Stark--and he will burn the world to protect the ones he loves.

They eventually found the information they were looking for, buried deep in old American military databases. It was the closed case of just another soldier lost in battle, 'CLASSIFIED' and 'DECEASED' titling the sparse file.

_Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Former member of the Marines' special ops sub-dom Howling Commandos unit. Designated submissive, assigned to Sergeant Major Timothy Dugan._

_KIA during Operation Winter Soldier, age 26. Cause of death: fall from broken zipline. Body never recovered. No family to inform._

_Posthumously awarded the Silver Star and Purple Heart._

James's younger, happier face peers out from the screen, and Steve reaches out briefly to touch the edge of the monitor, a habitual hello to make up for the one he didn't have the chance to say.

"The interview's in ten," he reminds Tony gently. "We shouldn't be late."

"So I have eight more minutes. Eight and a half if you go keep the elevator door open."

"Tony--"

Steve reaches out to grasp Tony's wrist, curling his fingers in a loose circle as he tugs his husband around to face him. Up close, Tony looks even more haggard, lacking the easy mask he puts on for the press. His eyebrows furrow as he meets Steve's gaze, irritation flaring over the near-constant desperation that's marked them both ever since they lost James.

Steve has fared better on that front, but only because he didn't really get to _know_. He didn't get to have James in his arms.

He didn't have to hear the love of their lives screaming in agony.

"Every second I'm not working is a second that James is in danger!" Tony snaps, yanking his hand back. "It's a second that he might be spotted by HYDRA, or found by some trigger-happy SHIELD agent, or any number of the bounty hunters and governments that are out for his head--"

"Fury's working on the World Security Council, you know that," Steve interrupts, stopping the words in their tracks, refusing to follow that train of thought. He reaches out for Tony, some of the stiffness in his husband's shoulders easing as he lets Steve wrap an arm around his waist. Tony presses closer with an unhappy sound. "And SHIELD has orders to not engage--or to use nonlethal force, if it comes to it. We'll find him, Tony."

He lays the palm of his free hand over Tony's heart, six inches below where the rifle round had torn through alloy and electronics and flesh and bone. The injury is the only reason Tony's stayed out of the field, stubborn and frustrated but smart enough to know that going out with Steve in search of James will only make the damage worse.

If he had the choice, Tony would be right there with Steve, at his side as he kicks down the doors of HYDRA outposts and leaves swaths of single-minded destruction in his wake, wringing answers from those who ever thought of harming James. Instead he works in his lab, ripping apart the privacy of the entire world in his frantic search.

They've forgotten how to care about the way their anger manifests, now that they're no longer bound by SHIELD's rules.

Steve shifts his hold as Tony presses against his side, face tucking into Steve's shoulder as the tension seeps from his body. He pulls his husband tighter, turning his nose into Tony's hair, clinging for support even as he tries to offer it himself.

"We have to find him, Steve," Tony says, soft and exhausted. "We _have_ to."

"We will," Steve whispers. The words are rote by now, but he has to hold onto them, nevertheless, cupping them carefully in his hands to keep the hope from being extinguished. He presses a tender kiss to Tony's temple and tugs him gently in the direction of the door. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

Pepper's waiting for them when they step out of the private elevator onto the ground floor. She has a tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other, wrist flicking imperiously as she gracefully keeps Stark Industries running. The stern expression on her face reflects the no-nonsense CEO who dominates the technological industry--but when she catches sight of them, it softens into something gentle and fond.

"And here I thought I'd have to send out a search team," she smiles, the familiar teasing something that Steve is pathetically grateful for.

"You know I have a three-hour grace period," Tony sniffs, trying half-heartedly to bat away Pepper's hand as she reaches out to smooth down an errant tuft of black hair. He fiddles with his sling as they walk toward the double-doors that lead into the main lobby, tugging at the strap--and then pulling the entire thing off. He rolls his shoulder with a wince as Pepper lets out a startled sound of protest, her hand reaching out to grab his elbow as if she can actually force him to take care of himself.

"Tony, you can't--"

"It'll be fine," Tony demurs, wiggling the fingers of his good hand. "It's just for the interview, then I'll go back to being a good little cripple."

Pepper casts Steve a _look_ , attempting to appeal to the saner Stark in the relationship. But he just glances at his fidgeting husband and shakes his head, slowly.

"He's right. If he shows up injured, there are going to be questions, and we don't want anything pointing too obviously to the raid in Austria. Give it another week or two out of the public eye, and then we can say Tony hurt his arm in a lab accident or something."

"We want James to see the interview," Tony adds, his voice quiet, dark eyes intent. "And if he does--if this somehow finds a way to reach him--seeing that he hurt me shouldn't be what he takes away from it."

"He _did_ hurt you, Tony," Pepper replies sharply. She'd made it clear when they got back from Austria that as willing as Tony and Steve are to forgive James, she isn't going to be swayed so easily.

"That was before, Pep," Tony replies. His voice is calm, but steel flashes in his eyes, unwavering and sure. "That wasn't his fault, and it doesn't matter now."

Pepper visibly bites back her next comment, looking between Tony and Steve. After a moment her eyes soften.

"Alright," she says. "Then let's send the message you want him to get." She takes the sling from Tony and folds it neatly, tucking it into a slim leather tote alongside her tablet. She looks at him severely.

"This goes back on after the interview, Tony. I mean it."

"I'll make sure he puts it on," Steve assures her as they fall into step behind her. They leave the safety of the private elevator foyer and make their way to the designated media room. Pepper starts managing the news crew as soon as they enter, ordering them into position with a strict tone and a few more flicks of her wrist. Steve feels a warm rush of gratitude as she turns back to them. Even with her doubts, Pepper's already given them so much support, easing the stress as they've scrambled to put themselves back together after losing James.

"Director Fury's waiting in the green room," Pepper adds as she straightens Steve's tie. "He said that he'll talk to you after the interview."

Tony grunts his acknowledgement, but Steve nods, already itching to get whatever intel Fury's managed to get his hands on. Pepper gives them one last look, eyes lingering on their drawn faces. She reaches up to squeeze Steve's shoulder, leans over to press a gentle kiss to Tony's temple, and motions them toward the interviewer.

The producer guides them to the small couch set up under the camera lights, looking alternately ecstatic that he's getting an exclusive interview and terrified that something will go wrong. Steve steps around Tony neatly, arranging their seating so that he'll be able to keep a hold on Tony's left hand for the duration of the interview.

Tony offers him a strained smile, squeezing his hand reassuringly.

Steve makes small talk with the interviewer as the sound technician and cameramen flutter around them, taking light measurements and distance readings and setting sound levels. Tony puts in a few comments but little else, detached from the conversation, and Steve knows his husband's mind is still back in the lab.

Finally the interview begins in earnest, the cameras rolling as the pleasant female news anchor guides them through the introductory questions.

Steve relaxes into the familiar routine of reassuring the American public, answering the inquiries with calm, collected ease. He explains the leave of absence that they're taking from the Avengers, and says positive things about their provisional replacements, Quicksilver and the Scarlet Witch. He confirms that T'Challa will be the group's de facto leader during the interim--and tries not to feel discomfited by the stiff silence from Tony, beside him.

"...The Avengers are important on a global scale--but so are the other superhero teams out there," Steve says. "So are the police, the firefighters, the everyday people. The world was doing fine before we came along, and it will be fine while we're gone. Because we can't be Iron Man and Captain America right now. Not for something this important."

"Finding your sub, you mean."

"Yes," Steve replies, tensing as they leave the safe questions behind.

"The two of you are one out of fifteen known cases of the _duo dominus_ phenomenon. True bonded dominant/submissive pairs are a rarity as it is--in your case, the likelihood of two dominants bonding with a shared submissive was astronomically small. You and Tony have said in previous interviews that you've always hoped to meet your bonded submissive--are you saying now that you've met this person? Can you explain just what has happened?"

"We..."

"We lost him," Tony says shortly, a grimace twisting through the bland expression he usually puts on for the media. His fingers curl tighter around Steve's hand as the interviewer leans forward, interested in the new tidbit of information.

"We met, but it was very brief," Steve continues for Tony, squeezing gently back. "It was only a minute or two. Tony and I felt it immediately, but--we don't think he realized what he is to us."

"Didn't you try to talk to him, to explain what has happened?"

"There was no time, it--it all happened so fast." Steve pauses briefly, exhaling a low breath. "Circumstances pulled us apart. We have no idea how to find him now."

"But won't he come to you? Dr. Valerie Cooper, one of the leading researchers in the field of Dominant-Submissive Dynamics, has said that being without your bonded pair is like missing a limb, or one of your senses. Surely your bonded submissive will realize what's happening and come forward."

"It's not that simple," Tony interjects sharply. Steve blinks at him in surprise. Tony's tone is the same as when he's trying to explain impossible concepts to people who could never hope to understand. He's frustrated and impatient, and not even bothering to try to conceal his emotions any longer. "A bonding doesn't mean that he has to come forward--that he even wants to. He's his own person, and if he really doesn't want--" Tony's words cut off briefly, strangled, before he continues, "...if he doesn't want us, then he can choose to live his life however he wants."

And Steve suddenly understands just what this interview is costing his husband. Tony's been in the public eye all his life; he knows better than anyone what it's like to have the weight of millions watching him and he's borne it all without complaint. But now that they have ( _don't have_ ) James, Tony's willingly revealing the one thing he wants to protect from the flashing lights.

He's exposing James to the merciless attention that he's always hated, and Steve knows it will be a long time before Tony forgives himself for that.

Steve takes a shaky breath and pulls the spotlight back onto himself, offering the interviewer a smile that feels like it's plastered on. "Dr. Cooper is right--the separation is a.... It's painful. It's _all-consuming_. I can't describe it any better. That's why we're so worried about J--about our sub. If he doesn't know what's going on, then he can't understand what's happening to him; he's suffering every day without reason. More than anything, we want to protect and take care of him, but if he doesn't want to come to us...."

Tony makes a low noise and leans into him. Steve inhales a stuttering breath, forcing oxygen into his lungs around the tight knot in his chest. He turns his face into Tony's temple, closing his eyes briefly.

The journalist waits a dramatic beat before saying, "You're so desperate to find him, to explain things to him--and yet you've refused to identify him to the public. No one can help you search if you don't give a description--will he even know that you're talking about him?"

And that's the part that makes this entire interview an exercise in futility. They may win the goodwill of an entire planet, but it's useless if they can't win the trust of one abused young man. The only way they can protect James right now is to keep his description from the world. He's as wanted by HYDRA as he is by the governments affected by the Peace Summit tragedy; they can't risk drawing attention to him.

So Steve remains carefully neutral as he refuses to describe the man he already loves unconditionally. He shakes his head slightly.

"He'll know."

The woman offers him a sympathetic look. Her eyes flicker to the clock on the wall as the interview nears a close, and she leans forward for the final question.

"You're going public with this for a reason. What do you think is the most important thing your submissive should take away from this if he sees it? What do you think he should know?"

Steve inhales, a low, controlled breath. He glances at Tony, whose jaw is set in a firm line.

"That we love him," Steve replies quietly. "That we'll welcome him whenever he's ready to come home--that he _has_ a home, always, with us. That we love him _no matter what_."

Tony squeezes Steve's hand tightly before looking straight at the camera.

"Everything will be alright," he says, soft and even. "I swear that we'll take care of you--and that we love you already, with everything we are."

The words linger heavily in the air, no one daring to breathe. Even the interviewer seems disarmed by the sincerity of the moment, gaping at them for several seconds before straightening to deliver her closing directly to the camera.

"The Starks have established a hotline for their sub to contact them directly at the number below. They ask that you respect their privacy while they await word from him."

The cameras' lights blink off.

Tony's up and moving the instant it's over.

"Lab," he says shortly, the terseness gentled by the brief, tight hug he pulls Steve into. He strides out of the room, stopping only long enough for Pepper to discreetly pass him the folded sling.

Steve maintains his camera-ready smile and stays behind to smooth things over with the interviewer and producer, who had clearly hoped for some post-interview small talk with the charismatic genius. As soon as he's able to do so politely, however, he turns them over to Pepper and crosses to the green room.

"You have something," Steve says, not bothering with niceties.

Nick Fury reaches into a briefcase and pulls out a thick file.

"Stark's Russian hunch was correct. My agents found it in a basement full of ‘misplaced' files in Chelyabinsk under a pelmeni restaurant and an inch of dust."

Fury hands him the folder--no longer dusty, but still stamped with the seals of the Russian FSB and the defunct Soviet KGB--and grimaces as Steve flips it open to the worn photograph.

"It's bad, Captain. This one...you'll need to be careful. She may not be salvageable."

"Worse than Barton?" Steve asks dubiously, scanning the documents for information.

They've been looking for James's companions, too; Tony pulled their faces from the same footage that led them to James. The woman had been a dead end until now, but Tony'd found Clint Barton's records buried deep in a disavowed, experimental DoD program. They'd let Fury take the lead on that investigation, his rank allowing him to pry top-level secrets from even the most tight-lipped government officials. The files he'd passed on had painted a disturbing picture of abuse and mental conditioning of submissives.

Steve shudders to imagine what could be worse than Project Concordance as he looks into the dark eyes of the serious-faced teenager in the picture. She's barely recognizable as the woman he'd fought in the assault on the HYDRA base. He skims over the front page, attention catching on the bits of Cyrillic lettering that he can actually translate.

**_Имя: Наталья Романова._ **

"Natalia Romanova?" Steve says, glancing up. "No patronymic?"

"If she did have a family, the KGB didn't keep track of them. The surviving records are pretty sparse as it is. Look," Fury reaches forward and shuts the file in Steve's hands, waiting for Steve to meet his gaze before continuing, "I'm not giving you this information to upset you two. When you read this, just remember that Barnes was in good hands until two years ago; the shrinks are optimistic about his chances for eventual recovery. But when you find him, you need to know that _you can't trust his companions_. They were damaged before HYDRA ever got their hands on them. We can't be sure they didn't serve willingly, and we don't know what they'll do if you try to separate Barnes from them."

"I appreciate your concern, Director, but we're not going to make any decisions until we find him." Steve knows his tone is stiff as he pulls the file out of Fury's reach. While he's grateful for the man's help, he can't help the urge to jealously guard everything to do with James. Just letting SHIELD handle the background checks on the other two has been agonizing.

Fury sighs and produces a second, thinner file from the case.

"Here. Intelligence has identified another HYDRA safehouse. We believe some of their scientists have been holed up here since Austria."

Steve snatches the folder from his hands, and Fury doesn't try to stop him. He glances over the first few pages, committing the locations and names to memory.

"Nuremberg. How scenic."

He's already analyzing the map of the area for possible approaches to the residence, adrenaline flooding his body, his heart racing at the promise of something to _do_. And under it all is the familiar roar of anger, the refrain of _'they hurt James'_ beating a tattoo in his head.

Fury's voice is neutral as he makes his usual offer. "I have agents in the area ready to go in with you, Captain."

"Just keep the cleanup crew on standby," Steve replies curtly. "I go in alone."

He keeps his eyes on the file, avoiding the knowledge he knows will be in Fury's gaze. Very few people know that one of the reasons Iron Man and Captain America have stepped aside is because Steve can't hold himself up to that ideal right now. He can't embody the honor and morality Captain America stands for--not with the desperate, barely controlled rage that drives him to tear the world apart in James's name.

The pictures in his hands blur, replaced with the base that Steve hit three days ago.

_"They were Mentallo's pets," the terrified HYDRA officer squeaks, his face bloodied and bruised from a fist that can easily punch through walls. Steve shakes him, fingers fisted in the red-streaked uniform._

_"What did he do to them?" he demands. They know little about the two years James spent in Mentallo's thrall, but the picture's being painted clearer with every HYDRA facility Steve tears through, with every horrifying scrap of information that he shakily relays to Tony._

_"Anything! Everything. Whatever he wanted, he--he mostly just used them as assassins. He didn't care about them other than that. Didn't care if the others in command took advantage of them--but I never did, I_ swear _, I swear I never touched them--" the man protests, his eyes wide in fear._

_Steve barely hears him. The image of James being taken, used, abused and broken--_

_He curls his fingers around the officer's neck._

Fury clears his throat.

"How's Stark's search program progressing?"

"Not fast enough," Steve replies automatically.

But the memory of Tony's frustration cuts through the adrenaline coursing through his system, pulling him up short. He needs to show Romanova's file to Tony; maybe there will be clues that Tony can use to track them down. But first he needs to call for the jet--he can be wheels up in an hour and make Germany just past nightfall. There's no time to waste; every second is a second that James is in danger.

Steve thrusts his hand toward Fury for a shake.

"Thank you for the files, Director. Tell your agents in Nuremberg I'll be hitting the house tonight."

Fury nods, but Steve doesn't let go. He waits until the Director meets his eyes, gaze intent.

"They don't come in before dawn."

A muscle jumps in Fury's jaw. But after a moment he nods again, sharply, and turns to leave, heading toward the entrance.

Steve only spares a moment to watch him go before doing an abrupt about-face, striding toward the elevator with the files gripped tightly in his hand.

Three deadly words repeat in his mind, a snarled refrain keeping time with his footsteps.

_They hurt James._


	5. Chapter 5

"You have got to be fucking _kidding_ me."

Bucky blinks as Clint's voice cuts through the now-familiar fog of exhaustion, lifting his eyes from the mug of hot cider cupped in his hand. Clint's half-risen from his chair, eyes narrowed and expression tense, his gaze fixed on something over Bucky's shoulder. 

It only takes a second to guess what's caught Clint's attention.

The bar's ancient television is in that direction, mounted high in the corner behind a sheet of filthy plexiglass. Bucky had purposefully sat with his back to it; his attention lately is shot enough as it is, nevermind seeing _that_. He hunches his shoulders, quashing the compulsion to turn and see for himself. It won't help. It never helps.

 _< "Hey, change the channel!">_ Clint calls in belligerent French, jabbing a finger toward the television. _< "We're missing the game!">_

The bartender's Flemish accent renders his response unintelligible to Bucky's limited comprehension of the language, but Clint apparently has no such trouble. He shoots back a tirade of nonsensical insults, waving his hand with more emphasis. The man barks a sharp laugh and after a moment Clint sits down again, looking grimly satisfied. As Clint shoves a frieten into his mouth, Bucky glances around carefully. The tiny dive bar is nearly empty save a few apparent regulars; they don't even raise their heads at the commotion.

"You'd think that they would've found something else to obsess over by now," Clint mutters with a shake of his head. "It's been three months--should be pretty obvious by now that you don't want them."

Natasha kicks Clint viciously beneath the table, hissing something at him as Bucky forces down the choking sense of longing. At least the television had been on mute--not that he even needs to _hear_ the interview anymore. Their words ring in his ears constantly _(we'll take care of you, we love you)_ , a siren song that reaches straight to the fierce ache he's carried in his chest since their escape. Practice hasn't made denying it any easier.

He curls his trembling fingers tighter around the mug, clinging to the spare warmth that seeps into his bones.

"...don't even need them," Clint's saying, dragging Bucky's attention back to the present. "You said it yourself, Buck--we don't have to spend our lives dependent on doms. We can get by on our own."

He pauses when Bucky just offers him a wan smile. Uncertain concern replaces the conviction on his face.

"Right? You're fine without them."

"I am fine," Bucky agrees, forcing the familiar lie past the lump in his throat. He takes a sip of cider to disguise the way he can't meet Clint's eyes. "I don't need them."

"Damn straight," Clint mutters. Natasha rolls her eyes, prodding him in the shoulder.

"It's nearly time. Go do some shopping. And don't stop for pizza on the way."

Clint stands with a snort. "Yeah, right. All they've got around here is lahmacun, and that shit isn't pizza."

Bucky's eyes trail after Clint as he heads for the door with a swagger in his walk. He lifts his gaze when Natasha's hand lands on his shoulder, looking up as she squeezes gently.

"I'm fine, Tasha," he smiles, pulling himself together. He's not sure if she even believes the front of false confidence, anymore. "You know I don't want...that."

He allows the slightest shiver to run through him, something only detectable through her grip on him. Her eyes harden, and Bucky feels the guilt of the lies wrap tighter around his chest.

"They'll never touch you," Natasha vows fiercely.

He presses his forehead to hers gratefully, letting himself borrow her strength for just a moment. She slides her hand up to cup the back of his neck, fingers threading through his shaggy hair, carefully avoiding the short lengths of inert wiring. The contact isn't enough to ease the longing, but it's enough; it reminds him what's important.

Natasha's always been slender, but after three months on the run with no rest, she's taken on a gaunt edge, skin stretched over her fine bones. None of them have escaped the toll of pushing themselves to the limit. The constant hypervigilance leaves them exhausted and strung-out, and the hasty meals they usually grab aren't nearly enough to keep them at peak fitness. 

Before he'd broken, Bucky used to talk about escaping. He'd promised them freedom, vengeance; exoneration from the crimes committed in Mentallo's name. And while they've finally obtained their freedom--with no help from Bucky--it's a far cry from the warm welcome home he'd dreamed for them. 

Mentallo and HYDRA put them through hell--but freedom, so far, has been little better. 

They've sworn off killing. They've vowed to live peacefully, to never again hurt innocents through their actions, but their pursuers' relentless hunt makes a mockery of their best intentions. Their descriptions have been circulating since the Élysée mission. The World Security Council, the United Nations, SHIELD, and every police force in the northern hemisphere have been looking for them. And now HYDRA and the Starks are after them, with all the terrifying financial and technological resources at their disposal.

Wanted fugitives, they've had no choice but to arm themselves to survive. It's one thing to steal food, clothing, and transportation; but they need the kinds of ordnance that would raise red flags even if bought legally. To get their hands on these, they have to meet the prices set on the black market. Between dodging their pursuers and fighting for daily survival, they've been making their way across Europe, movements as erratic as they can make them. They've been pulling carefully planned missions to seize cash from criminals who won't report the theft, making deals whenever they could find someone with the goods they need to protect themselves. 

These days Bucky just wants to rest; to hand himself over and take the punishment he deserves. But he can't--not yet. Not while Natasha and Clint are still fighting for their freedom. He can't--he _won't_ \--abandon them.

They are what matters. Nothing else.

Bucky pulls away regretfully, the warmth fading as soon as he loses contact. 

"We'd better go."

He moves to stand, instinctively double checking that the lone security camera is still trained on the cash register.

"No telling what he'll pick up if we let him browse too long," Natasha agrees, reaching over to help him tuck his sling into his jacket. The metal arm is less than useless now, deactivated by Iron Man's EMP and unresponsive to all of their attempts to get it restarted. Bucky silently curses the damn thing but allows Natasha to assist, her deft hands tucking his coat around him and flipping up the collar in the back to hide his neck.

The pulse that deactivated his arm and their control collars had also disabled the failsafe explosives built into the casings, allowing the bulky devices to be cut off with nothing more glamorous than hydraulic bolt cutters in a closed auto-body shop. They still can't extract the wires embedded in their skin--not without advanced neurosurgery--but they can at least pass unnoticed now, even in the warm weather, by donning simple hipster scarves and popped collars.

Once they're both ready, Natasha drops a few bills on the table and leads the way to the door.

The street is crowded with slow-moving traffic from the nearby bridge, but the sidewalk is nearly empty, just a few tourists hurrying through the grimy neighborhood on their way to Gent's more famous sites. The storefronts are protected by burglar bars, the brick surfaces graffitied beyond recognition.

They've spent most of their time on the run in areas like this; they know how to predict where the real dangers are.

There are two ATM machines between the bar and their destination. Natasha reaches up to re-wrap her scarf as they pass the first, letting the fabric briefly obscure her face. Bucky turns his head to watch her, the pair of them just an anonymous, doting couple to the unblinking eye of the camera. A row of unremarkable cars is parked along the curb, and Bucky spares a brief glance at a blue one as they pass by.

"Looks fine," Natasha murmurs. 

Bucky nods. If something goes south on this op, they'll need to exit fast. The car's generic appearance and the replacement plates they'd lifted in Brussels should keep anyone from realizing for a few days that it had recently been stolen just across town--more than enough time for them to finish up in Belgium.

 _But nothing's going to go wrong_ , he promises himself silently, clinging to that belief. _Everything's under control._

At the ATM on the next block, Bucky raises his hand to shade his eyes from the sun, letting his arm block his profile as Natasha buries her face in his neck.

The pawn shop's neon sign beckons from behind steel bars. Bucky spots Clint lounging against the counter inside, idly haggling with an employee over what looks to be an old guitar. He looks over at them indifferently but reaches up to toy with his scarf, giving them the all-clear signal.

Natasha pushes through the door first, head held high and shoulders set confidently. She strides past Clint and the man behind the counter without a second glance.

Bucky trails behind, hunched defensively as his eyes dart around the shop in apparent nervousness, noting the details that Clint had scouted out yesterday. The prison tattoos on the neck of the burly cashier, the high counters that could easily conceal weapons, the cluttered front windows that minimize sightlines from the street. But most significant are the security cameras that lack their telltale red lights. If you know what to look for, the true nature of the shop is obvious.

Natasha approaches the only other person in the store, a tall, thin man pretending to browse a selection of pipes. He twitches when she marches right up to him. Bucky's careful not to crowd her as he lurks behind and to the side, picking at the hem of his coat.

 _< "Monsieur Lutgen?">_ she asks in French, letting just the slightest bit of a New York accent tinge her words. 

The man straightens and smiles down at her. 

"Ah, Ms. Smithson, I presume," he replies in heavily accented English. "Please, call me Jean-Marc."

He barely glances at Bucky as he extends his hand to Natasha, and Bucky swallows down a vicious curse. From the limpness of Natasha's hand in Lutgen's grasp, the way she's already changed to a less aggressive stance, he can tell she's noticed, too.

They're dealing with a _goddamn amateur_.

Natasha gestures around the shop with an easy smile. "Shall we?"

"Of course; come right this way."

Lutgen leads them behind the long counter, and Bucky lets his growing unease transmute into fidgeting with his sling. No one would bring a disabled bodyguard to a meet; instead, Bucky's playing the part of Ms. Smithson's timid technical advisor. It's a role that has served them well in the past few months, but at the very least it warrants a critical stare and a demand for an introduction.

The man had dismissed Bucky's crippled, cringing persona without a second glance.

Lutgen motions them through the Employees Only door, waiting for them to go first. Natasha shares a brief glance with Clint before sliding through the doorway, Bucky following obediently.

He smacks into Natasha's back before he's able to take two steps, freezing in place when he peers around her to catch sight of two thugs. One of them already has a pistol out, which sends Bucky grabbing for the gun concealed in his sling in a heart-pounding rush of adrenaline--only a slight motion of Natasha's hand turns the motion into a tug at his sling. A second, longer look shows the fear in the men's eyes, so instead Bucky lets his own eyes go wide as he cowers behind Natasha.

"What is this?" she demands, hands perfectly still at her sides.

Lutgen ducks past them into the crowded room, and Bucky resists the urge to grab the man and put a gun to his throat. Springing armed guards--green first-timers, too, if the man's white-knuckled grip on his gun is any indication--on paranoid criminals in a small space is beyond idiotic. If _Ms. Smithson_ and her assistant had been one iota less experienced, the move would have been a quick path to a bloodbath.

"These men are just a security precaution," Lutgen says breezily. "The merchandise is extraordinarily valuable, I'm sure you'll agree."

Bucky fucking _hates_ working with amateurs.

"If the merchandise is legitimate..." he says, voice wavering on the implied question. It earns him a frown, but Lutgen gestures to the thugs.

"Hans."

One of the men flips an unseen switch. A narrow portion of the wall swings away, revealing a dark staircase going down.

Lutgen turns to Natasha with a flourish, his eyes searching for surprise or approval. "I do all of my _important_ deals in the basement," he explains proudly. "There are fewer interruptions, and more security from prying eyes."

Natasha lets him see grudging respect, while Bucky just twitches and instinctively thumbs over the reassuring weight of his pistol. Meeting in a hidden basement? _Seriously?_ Any experienced buyer would back out instantly at the mere thought of entering that kind of death trap—but they need this radio too badly. Bucky flexes his fingers and prepares for the unexpected.

"I'm sure it's ideal," Natasha reassures the man. "Shall we?"

Hans leads the way down the steps into a surprisingly large cellar. The walls and ceiling are unfinished, allowing Bucky to see that the room runs under the neighboring shops. A half-dozen exposed bulbs provide enough light to ensure there are no more surprises lurking. Low stacks of boxes line one wall; likely Lutgen's everyday, run of the mill stolen merchandise. A folding table in the middle of the space dramatically holds the one item that interests them.

He and Natasha step to the far side of the table, facing the stairs as Lutgen and his other guard descend. It's best to have an eye on the entrance, but Bucky's still uncomfortable with being cut off from escape, the itch between his shoulderblades tightening as the guards flank Lutgen with their guns still drawn.

"This looks promising," Natasha says approvingly, stepping to the table and looking over the large radio. Lutgen joins her across the table.

"As advertised: A SHIELD Falcon III."

"And it works?"

"See for yourself."

Natasha waves Bucky forward. He keeps his eyes on the radio and licks his lips nervously before flicking it on. The brief crackle of static is loud, and the unnamed guard jumps. Bucky twitches in response but he keeps his hand steady as he turns down the volume. After a moment of white noise, he begins to twist the tuner, searching for a signal. He gets all the way through the band without finding anything.

Natasha glares at Lutgen. "You said this was coded for SHIELD, Jean-Marc."

"I assure you, it is their encryption," Lutgen assures, only a slight tic of muscle betraying his unease. "They are simply not broadcasting in the area at the moment."

"I'm going to need proof."

Lutgen pulls a small device from his pocket and slides it across the table. 

"I recorded this last week. SHIELD raided a HYDRA safe house outside Lille nine days ago." He arches an eyebrow with forced flippancy. "Perhaps you'd heard of it?"

Bucky could have laughed at the implication that they might be HYDRA themselves, or even AIM. Natasha shrugs neutrally, motioning him forward, and Bucky picks up the small recorder. He catches her eye and hits play.

_\- "--confirm, the gendarmes will keep their distance. Perimeter, report." -_

_\- "Rue de Seclin, south end, clear." -_

_\- "Rue des Arts, east, clear." -_

_\- "Rue du Curé, north, clear." -_

_\- "Rue de Lille, west, clear." -_

_\- "Mendelssohn, report." -_

_\- "Target's quiet. Lights in two rooms. No movement. I think they're watching the news, sir." -_

Natasha's mouth quirks approvingly. The conversation corroborates the report they'd picked up on their stolen HYDRA radio last week: a nighttime SHIELD attack in northern France. The Falcon III is exactly what they need; an early warning system if SHIELD ever locates them.

\- _"All units maintain position. Do not—I repeat, **do not** breach without express orders. Captain Stark's heading in."_ -

Bucky's heart stops in his chest.

_He was here. Steve was **here** , he was in Europe, just 70 kilometers away from this very spot--he was close, so close, and I didn't even…_

And even more, Steve had been attacking a _HYDRA_ facility. He must have—was he looking for Bucky? Could that have been it?

Bucky quickly smothers the hope that blooms in his chest at the thought. It's ridiculous; he's not worth that kind of risk. SHIELD would never authorize it.

_'More than anything, we want to protect and take care of him.'_

He shivers, unable to resist imagining Steve in his Captain America uniform, breaking down the door of Bucky's old room, shooting a HYDRA dom and then pulling back his cowl to reveal his handsome face. It's a thrilling, ridiculous fantasy, one that makes Bucky's heart thunder painfully against his ribcage—but it doesn't last.

It's the kind of rescue he used to dream of, in those first months. Before he gave up. Before he did those terrible things—the attacks, the murders, the executions—on Mentallo's orders. Even when he—

No. If Steve and Tony ever found out about even a portion of what he's done, they wouldn't go to such lengths to find him. They wouldn't make public declarations of love and acceptance. They wouldn't even _acknowledge_ him except to hand him over to the authorities. Tony had been right the first time, when he'd called Bucky a murderer, the hate clear in his voice, undisguised by the suit's speakers. 

_That_ is reality. That is what's true. If his doms—and he didn't even deserve to call them 'his'—ever found him, if they knew what he really was….

They'd probably put the bullet between his eyes themselves.

"—making any decisions until _John_ tells me it's authentic."

Natasha's voice is loud and angry, breaking through the haze fogging Bucky's mind. The worry in her tone is palpable; he blinks rapidly as the basement swims back into focus. Both guards have their guns up and pointed at him and Natasha. Lutgen has backed away from the table, finally looking nervous. The recorder is shattered on the floor at Bucky's feet.

He's lost time again.

_Fuck._

He'd _sworn_ this would never happen on a mission. He'd told himself over and over that he would never, ever jeopardize the others. It had been under control; he'd thought that he had it under control. He catches sight of the jumpy, tense expressions on the guards' faces, bile rising in his throat from the knowledge that he'd _left Natasha alone_ while his mind was gone. 

He's going to get them killed, if he hasn't already.

"Sorry, sorry!" he rushes, ducking below the table to pick up the pieces of the recorder—and slip the safety off his concealed pistol. "I was—the Falcon IIIs are so hard to get hold of, the craftsmanship is just masterful—"

Lutgen looks uncertain. He can tell something's just happened, but for once, his inexperience is playing in their favor. An established dealer would have ended the meet here and now—with lead.

Natasha steps in to divert him. 

"How do I know this radio hasn't been recoded?" she demands. "SHIELD may have scrambled it already."

Bucky watches as Lutgen relaxes into the transaction again, the man protesting that the radio is presumed destroyed in the São Bento explosion. By the time he tries to raise his price 'in light of recent security upgrades,' Bucky's already run through four different exit strategies, his body tense and ready to spring.

"I believe we agreed on _fifteen_ , Jean-Marc," Natasha says, her voice steely. 

"The radio is worth far more than that. If you cannot reach that amount, I'm sure I can find another buyer—"

Natasha scoffs. "There will _be_ no other buyer. This is not one of your stolen flatscreens. The moment SHIELD learns it exists, the Falcon loses all value. And you wouldn't want SHIELD to find out it survived, would you?"

She narrows her eyes, leaning on the table.

"Fifteen."

The guards shift nervously. Bucky hunches further down into his jacket, thumb brushing against the grip of his pistol as he fidgets with his sling.

Some prey instinct seems to save Lutgen, prompting him to accede with a stumbling, "I...very well, yes, fifteen thousand."

Natasha tosses a thick envelope onto the table. 

Lutgen snatches it, tearing it open and eagerly flipping through the stack of euros inside, eyes widening with greed. The guards allow their aim to wander as they crane their necks to see.

"Satisfied?" she asks sweetly.

"Oh my, yes!" Lutgen exclaims before he remembers himself. "Yes, I believe this is all in order, Ms. Smithson. The Falcon is yours."

Bucky keeps his hand near the gun as Natasha collects the radio and heads for the stairs, making their goodbyes and promising to spread the word of Lutgen's wares. When they reach the shop Clint looks up from the counter with a tense expression that fades into a relieved smile at their nods. Natasha drops the radio into the bag that Clint holds open, and the cashier keeps his eyes on them as they leave the shop.

Out on the sidewalk, Bucky flips the safety back on his gun, finally allowing his hand to drop to his side.

Natasha tosses the keys to Clint and lets out a ragged breath, dragging her hands through her hair. Clint pulls his hood over his head, and Bucky scratches his nose as they pass by the ATM. They pile into their stolen car, and Bucky waits until Clint's taken them out of the neighborhood before finally breaking down.

_"Fuck!"_

Clint jerks in the front seat as Bucky slams his fist against the side door of the car, cracking the plastic casing in his fury. Only Clint's ironclad control keeps him from yanking them into oncoming traffic; he glances at Bucky incredulously in the rear view mirror.

"What the hell? What happened in there? Why are you both so riled up? Didn't we get the radio?" He pauses, face scrunching up in dismay. "Wait, did you guys kill everybody?"

"Almost," Natasha growls, pinning Bucky with a hard glare. He drags a hand through his hair, unable to meet her gaze as sick guilt washes over him. They'd all sworn off killing--but his inattention had nearly turned a straightforward deal into a fight for their lives. If Lutgen had been more experienced, or his thugs a fraction jumpier, Natasha would have had to open fire to defend them.

Bucky had nearly provoked a bloodbath today, and it would have been as neat a manipulation as Mentallo had ever done.

When her attention shifts away he hunches down in his seat, closing himself off and deliberately not listening to Natasha's low murmur. He doesn't know what she's telling Clint—what she observed today, what she's putting together from the past weeks. Bucky drops his head against the back of the front passenger seat, scrubbing over his face with his hand. 

He'd been so sure he could keep it together if it was a mission--when their _lives_ were on the line. But he was wrong. He was so very, very wrong, and it almost got them killed.

It's been so hard to concentrate with the constant strain in his chest. He's taken a backseat since their escape, letting Natasha and Clint pick their route and plan the raids. The first target had been all Natasha: a mob courier she knew of in Ljubljana. Once they'd been able to afford new weapons, she and Clint had planned more ambitious missions: drug stockpiles, smuggling rings--even an AIM lab--had afforded them replacement gear, high-tech comms, and encrypted radios. Usually such complicated raids would have been Bucky's purview, and he's pitched in where he can, trying to offer the tactical input that used to direct their missions. But ultimately he's held back, not wanting to risk overlooking anything.

He hasn't wanted to risk _them_.

Bucky only lifts his head when Clint pulls up outside a derelict apartment complex, the side door opening and a gentle hand resting against his shoulder.

"C'mon, Buck," Clint says softly. "We'll figure it out."

Bucky follows them into the abandoned building, dragging his feet as he climbs the stairs. Three months on the run, and they're still too scared of going anywhere near cameras or crowds of people, squatting in places with no electricity or running water. He doesn't know what they'll do for heat when winter comes.

He'd sworn to protect them. But he's the one who begged them to kneel at Ebersol's feet; who made them give up the surety of release in exchange for growing gaunt with exhaustion and the constant itch of wires at the back of their necks. He owes them _everything_ , but all he's managed to give is a lifetime on the run and a deadweight who can't even keep his mind from wandering in the middle of a standoff. 

They reach the dilapidated apartment, Clint guiding Bucky into one of the folding chairs they'd found in the maintenance room. He slumps down gratefully, resting his forearm on his knee. Clint and Natasha are going through their gear bag, talking quietly with each other, and he can't even muster the energy to care they're discussing him.

God, he's failed them so miserably.

"Bucky."

He looks up in time to catch the two of them exchange a significant glance. Clint nods, which is apparently the cue for Natasha to walk over and hand Bucky a chunky black cell phone.

He stares at it blankly. They don't use cell phones. They barely use _landlines_. It's too easy for a call to be intercepted, for them to be found out—

"It's safe. I lifted it back in Hamburg."

"What..?"

Natasha looks him in the eye, and Bucky abruptly understands.

"No—"

"I know you don't want to do this," she interrupts. "Believe me, I understand. But you're getting worse, _lapushka_."

Bucky stares down at the innocuous phone in his hand, instinctively holding it back out to her. Natasha doesn't take it.

"I _can't_ ," he rasps.

"We need to try something," Clint says quietly, looking up from where he's boobytrapping the door against intruders. "Maybe if you talk to them, if you hear their voices…maybe it'll be enough." He glances away briefly. "You're fading away, Buck."

"I don't want this," Bucky pleads. It's a lie; he wants that phone more than anything right now.

That's why he's so terrified.

"Do it for us, James," Natasha murmurs. The words are a kick to the gut, and Bucky doesn't fight as she gently cups his jaw, tilting his head up to meet her gaze fully. "Didn't I promise? They'll never touch you. And we'll be right here. You'll be safe. Make the call."

Bucky shivers, staring down at the phone for a long, agonizing minute. He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't, no matter how much he wants to. But Natasha--Natasha is actually _asking_ him to.

It's the work of a few seconds to punch in the number burned into his memory.

On the first ring his heart jumps, fingers tightening around the cell spasmodically. He hunches over and tilts his body away from the others as his pulse ratchets up.

By the fourth ring his mouth is painfully dry, and he jerks when a laconic female voice answers.

_\- "Stark Industries, can you hold?" -_

"I—yes, of course," Bucky manages. He casts a wild look at Natasha but she makes a little encouraging motion with one hand, eyebrows raised expectantly. He can _hear_ his blood pounding, every second that ticks by like an eon.

Eventually the line clicks, the woman's voice coming back.

_\- "Sorry for the wait; this is the hotline for the Starks' lost submissive. The call will be monitored for security reasons. Please state your name and a brief message, and we will pass it on for review." -_

Bucky's stomach plummets.

He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up, really. What did he expect—for Steve and Tony to be waiting anxiously for him to call, available to answer at a moment's notice? They were busy men, with their own lives and a company to run, and he was just one voice out of thousands clamoring for their affection. He swallows back disappointment, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I don't—I can't…" he scrambles out of the chair as Natasha makes a grab for his arm, anticipating him ending the call too soon. "I'm sorry, I _can't--_ "

Something clicks on the other end, and a very different voice takes over the line.

_\- "--hello! Hello? James? …Hello?" -_

Bucky's knees give out.

He's barely aware of Natasha and Clint lunging for him, the world tilting on its axis as careful hands guide him to the floor.

"Tony," he breathes. There's a sharp inhalation.

_\- "Oh my God, James, **James** \--are you alright? Are you hurt? How are you? **Where** are you? -_

The words tumble over each other, quick and rapid-fire, but the only word that Bucky really registers is 'James'. Tony knows his name. They _both_ know his name. They researched for him, they searched for him--they looked for him and they _found_ him.

"Bucky," is all that he's able to manage.

 _\- "…'Bucky'?" -_ Tony repeats breathlessly, like he's hanging on that single word.

"It's my name," Bucky clarifies, swallowing past the lump in his throat. His tongue feels too thick in his mouth, his chest too constricted to breathe properly. "I mean, it's what I'm called. What I go by. Nobody calls me James."

Even as he says the words, Bucky knows he sounds idiotic. But Tony seems to not mind, taking the rambling in stride; taking Bucky's preference at face value.

_\- "Bucky, okay, perfect. Bucky it is. From Buchanan, right? Christ, **Bucky** , please—please tell me you're okay, please, I need to know that you're safe—if you need **anything** from us—" -_

There's another click through the connection, and Bucky has an instant of panic that Tony's going to hang up, that the call will be interrupted--of course Tony doesn't have time for him, he can't just call him out of the blue--

_\- "James? Hello? Tony? Are you there?" -_

Bucky's heart skips a beat as another anxious voice joins the call.

"Hi, Steve," he says softly. There's a strangled little sound on the other end, not unlike a choked-off whimper. "It's--it's Bucky. I'm okay. We got out safe."

 _\- "Oh, thank christ." -_ Steve breathes. Just watching the interview had been enough to set a craving low in Bucky's chest, a desire to hear Steve's voice up close, personal, speaking only to him. The connection he'd established so briefly with Tony-- _metal fingers stroking his cheek, so gentle, so careful and tender_ \--wasn't _enough_. He'd needed Steve, too. 

The sound of his voice washes over Bucky in a warm, comforting rush, the sudden sense of _completion_ untangling the knots that had been twisting inside his chest ever since the escape.

 _\- "We've been so worried," -_ Steve rasps, and god, how much pain has Bucky put them through by not responding? _\- "We tried to reach you--" -_

"I know," Bucky replies, a little dryly. "I saw it. The interview. It even reached Europe."

 _\- "You're still in Europe?" -_ Tony blurts, at the same moment Natasha lets out a little hiss of breath. Bucky raises his head to look at her, eyes wide. Her brows are furrowed and he grimaces, shaking his head slightly. He won't slip up again.

"Tony..." he swallows. "Don't. Please. I'm not--I'm not coming in."

_\- "What? But—" -_

_\- "Please," -_ Steve begs. _\- "Please, Bucky, let us help--" -_

"I _can't_ ," Bucky says desperately. " _Please_. Don't ask that of me. Don't try to-- I just wanted to hear your voices, you sounded…in the interview… I—I shouldn't have called, but I needed—"

He's rambling and he knows it, panic stuttering his words, pounding through his veins. Natasha's fingers brush hesitantly against his shoulder and he jerks, pressing the phone harder against his ear.

 _\- "Hey, hey," -_ Tony soothes, his voice pitched soft, low, and some of Bucky's fear instantly dissipates. _\- "It's okay. We won't force you to do anything. I swear we won't."_

 _"We just want to take care of you,"_ Steve says plaintively. _"You don't have to worry—everything will be taken care of; **you'll** be taken care of. You won't have to run anymore. We swear, all we want to do is make sure you're alright. Especially—is HYDRA on your tail? I'm working on them, I promise, I'm doing everything I can to keep them from finding you—" -_

"We can take care of ourselves," Bucky insists, pushing down the little thrill that runs through him despite his words. The idea of Steve out there hunting down HYDRA and risking himself terrifies him—he doesn't ever, ever want either Steve or Tony to be hurt because of him. Yet at the same time _Steve is risking himself for him_ ; he's willing to put himself in that kind of danger, like Bucky is something treasured, something important.

There's a gentle tap on his shoulder; Bucky glances up to see Clint holding up one finger. He can't help the rush of disappointment that twists in his stomach as he nods.

"I..." he swallows hard. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

_\- "No--" -_

_\- " **Please** ," -_ Tony begs. _\- "Just a little longer, please." -_

Bucky lets out a sigh, checking the seconds ticking down on his battered watch as he tilts his head back against the wall.

"You're tracing the call, aren't you?" he says, without heat. The guilty silence on the other end is proof enough. "Will you… Can I ask you to stop trying to find us?"

There's a strangled, broken sound that shoves a knife hilt-deep into Bucky's chest.

 _\- "No," -_ Tony chokes out. _\- "I'm sorry, I can't—we can't—please, Bucky, you have to understand—" -_

"It's okay," he blurts, desperate to make that pleading, desperate tone in Tony's voice go away. God, he's reduced his own dominant to begging; he's caused them so much pain, made them suffer all this time because of him-- "It's okay, I didn't think… I understand. But I have to—I have to go now."

 _\- "Will you contact us again?" -_ Steve asks, his voice small. _\- "A private number—you won't have to go through the hotline again. It'll just be us. Directly to us. It's area code 347, 555-1391." -_

Bucky's brain commits the numbers to memory the instant Steve says them, as though it's already clutching onto a chance to hear the two of them again.

"I…I might. I'll think about it."

 _\- "Please do," -_ Tony says softly. _\- "Call us anytime. If you need **anything**. We'll be here." -_

"Okay. I…" Bucky swallows the words 'love you', unable to force them past the lump in his throat. "I just… Thank you. For answering."

 _\- "We'll always answer you," -_ Steve murmurs. _\- "We love you, Bucky." -_

 _\- "Always," -_ Tony agrees. _\- "No matter what." -_

Bucky's hand shakes, his face flushed and eyes hot as Natasha holds up a hand, ticking down the seconds left with her fingers.

"Goodbye," he whispers.

The phone's lifted from Bucky's nerveless grip as soon as he hits the end call button. He slumps against the wall, eyes sliding shut as all the energy drains from his body. There's the telltale snap of plastic breaking as Clint strips the phone of SIM card and battery, dumping them in the corner to be disposed of when they leave in the morning.

Gentle fingers brush against his cheek, and Bucky lifts his head, blinking up at Natasha lazily. The knot of tension that had been twisting around inside his chest has finally eased, and it must show; a small smile quirks Natasha's lips as she combs her fingers through his hair. 

For the first time in months he feels like he can actually _breathe_.

"How do you feel?"

"I'm…I'm good," he murmurs. A small, mirroring smile curves his mouth when he realizes that the words are _true_. He just rests there for a moment, Natasha's hand a comforting warmth against his skin.

"Did they seriously put you on hold?"

Bucky shoots Clint a reproachful look that does nothing to dim his grin.

"They were screening the hotline. They—"

_They were screening for me._

"Damn it," Bucky hisses, hauling himself to his feet, suddenly clear-headed like he hasn't been in ages. He hadn't said anything of substance to suggest who he was, not at first. "They were running voice-recognition on the calls. Tony must have gotten a clip of my voice from the escape—and he's got an even better one, now."

He casts them an unhappy look.

"We have to stay away from any kind of cellular connection as much as we can. Knowing Tony, he's got the software hooked up to all of the satellite feeds. Even being heard in the background during someone else's conversation…."

Clint waves a hand, dispersing Bucky's rising guilt.

"Can't expect anything less from a guy who made his own suit of flying armor. I'll bet Stark has all the cool toys."

"Don't worry about it," Natasha agrees, squeezing Bucky's shoulder. "It was worth it."

Clint offers him a small smile as Natasha turns to unroll their sleeping bags.

"It's good to have you back," he says softly.

Bucky's stomach does a little flip as Clint turns to help Natasha. He manages a weaker, more uncertain smile at their backs.

He has a feeling that he's just given into an addiction, and there'll be no turning back.


	6. Interlude: Wishing Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> windswept and I are back on the job! I’ll be taking the lead on the remaining chapters and pray your patience. We aim to complete the story before _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ is released (in the US).
> 
> Thank you for your patience and for sticking with us during the unexpected hiatus. It’s good to be back!

**\-----October-----**

He's in the middle of a meeting when the opening chords of Black Sabbath's _Wishing Well_ fill the boardroom.

Tony blinks. His phone is in his hands, projecting the profile of the company they're annexing onto the screens. It's certainly not playing any music—not after Pepper forbade it following the History Channel’s ‘biography’ that had given him his own theme song—but, nevertheless, Ronnie James Dio sings on.

With a fixed smile and a subtle narrowing of her eyes, the look Pepper gives him from the opposite side of the table promises pain. She’d bullied and cajoled and eventually guilted him into attending this acquisition negotiation; clearly she’s regretting that decision.

The burden of leadership he's thrust on her is massive, but at this point Tony's guilt pales in comparison to the driving need to be back in his lab doing something _useful_. There's that Eutelsat firewall that's throwing off the cellular feeds from Poland; what if Bucky ever calls from there--

_Oh my god. **Bucky**._

"I have to take this," Tony blurts to the assembled board, grabbing at the phone--the other phone, _the_ phone--in his jacket pocket and scrambling to his feet. "I'll, uh--"

"I will take over the negotiations from here," Pepper interjects smoothly. Her eyes catch Tony's: _'Is it..?'_

He tilts his head in a quick, curt jerk. _'Yes.'_

She nods, eyes softening. Tony manages a short, desperately grateful smile as he slides his everyday phone down the length of the table to her before bolting.

He pulls out the dedicated phone as he strides into the hallway, shivering in anticipation.

He ducks his head and hits 'Answer.'

"Bucky?" he says breathlessly, cradling the phone against his ear and scanning the hall for the nearest private spot.

 _\- "Hey, Tony," -_ Bucky replies quietly.

At the sound of his voice, the last two months of worry and frustration evaporate. The tightness in Tony's chest that cautioned him that Bucky may never call again, that their sub truly had rejected them, finally, _finally_ loosens. He pushes into a random office and shoos away the startled employee behind the desk, sinking into the abandoned chair before the man's even left the room, throat so tight he can't speak.

 _\- "It's so good to hear from you," -_ Steve is saying, already on the other end of the line. His voice is warm, relaxed in a way Tony hasn’t heard in weeks.

Tony nods emphatically, even though he knows neither of them can see. He clears his throat. "How are you doing, sweetheart?"

_\- "I'm… I'm doing okay. Really." -_

"Yeah?"

_\- "We've been worried." -_

_\- "I know," -_ Bucky says softly, his voice tinged with guilt.

Tony rushes to reassure him, "But we're so glad you called, you don’t even _know_ —"

 _\- "I think I can guess, yeah." -_ Bucky's tone is wry, almost fond, and Tony grins despite himself, warmth pooling in his chest.

"Oh," he says lamely. "Yeah."

 _\- "I'm going to have to keep this short, sorry," -_ Bucky says, sounding genuinely disappointed. _\- "I don't want to, but…" -_

A sick twist of unease curls in Tony's gut, echoing the familiar desperation and making it hard to breathe. If Bucky insists, if he puts his foot down about Tony's search and tells him to stop….

But in the next few seconds of silence he _doesn't_. And he hasn't.

It's _something_ , and Tony is all too happy to clutch at that thin straw.

"Yeah," he rasps, suddenly hoarse. "I'm sorry, too. But I—you know I just want to protect you, that's all I want. I want to— _we_ want to keep you safe."

 _\- "I understand," -_ Bucky replies, soothing and oddly shy. _\- "I just--I wish you could leave me be. I don’t…I’m not what you want. Believe me." -_

"You're _all_ that we want," Tony insists fiercely, so many words crowding on his tongue, an unbearable pressure to make Bucky _understand_. "You're _everything_ , you--"

 _\- "You aren't to blame for any of this," -_ Steve interjects. _\- "We know you didn't want to follow Mentallo's orders. We saw the collars. Bucky, there's nothing you could have done." -_

This time the silence from Bucky's end makes Tony's heart ache.

"You were in a bad situation," he says, willing understanding into his voice. "It wasn't your fault. You're as much a victim as--" he cuts himself off just in time. Before Austria he'd have referred to _the Three's victims_. But knowing the true circumstances, he hates himself for ever having blamed Bucky and his fellow prisoners for those deaths.

 _\- "As anyone." -_ Steve says, smoothly covering for him.

"We've made what deals we can," Tony adds, rushing to cover his gaffe. "Things are in motion. You know there are laws that protect collared subs under the Lucerne Convention; no one can blame you for what happened. You were innocent in all of this."

 _\- "But you have to come in for that to happen, Bucky," -_ Steve says, and Tony can tell he's trying to temper the urgency in his voice. _\- "You can't explain, you can't tell your story, unless you come in. We're trying to keep the WSC off your backs, but the Élysée is still so recent in everyone’s minds--" -_

Bucky sucks in a sharp, sudden breath that sounds far too much like a sob.

 _\- "I can’t—I can’t do this," -_ he chokes on the words, voice strangled.

_Shit. **Shit.**_

_\- "Oh, god, **no** ," -_ Steve blurts. _\- "Don't—Bucky, that wasn't you. You had no choice--" -_

 _\- "I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have—" -_ Bucky cuts himself off, breath harsh and ragged. _\- "I have to go." -_

"No," Tony pleads. " _Please_." It's too soon, too short, they'd had him for so much longer the last call—

 _\- "Sorry," -_ Bucky rasps again. He sounds wrecked, shaky, and Tony has never felt so useless before in his life. All his inventions, all his achievements and distinctions--they don't mean _anything_ , not when compared with his inability to soothe his sub's hurt.

 _\- "We love you," -_ Steve manages; it sounds like a protest.

"So much," Tony agrees. "Please--please call us again."

_\- "I…." -_

_\- "Bucky," -_ Steve says brokenly, guilt heavy in his tone.

_\- "Bye." -_

There's a click on the line, and Steve groans. Tony bites his lip and closes his eyes, letting the loss rock through him.

_\- "I didn't mean to--" -_

"He knows, babe. We both screwed up. But it'll be okay."

_\- "What if he doesn't call? What if I drove him away?" -_

"He'll call," Tony whispers. "He loves us."

He isn't sure which of them he's trying to convince.

* * *

**\-----November-----**

Tony hits the mat with a whoosh of breath and immediately rolls into a crouch, looking up in time to catch Steve hiding a smile. "That'd better not be at my expense, Mr. Stark," he warns, shifting his weight and looking for another opening.

"That's _Captain_ Stark, Mr. Stark," Steve huffs, circling warily. "And I'm just happy to see you're doing better."

He bites back his own pleased grin. Six months of good behavior--of physical therapy and maddening inactivity--seem to have finally paid off. His shoulder feels fine, even with the impact of the latest fall. He bounces on his toes and rolls his shoulders, relishing the burn of new muscle underneath the scar tissue.

Tony lets his smile transform into a leer as he says, "Oh, I'm way beyond just 'better,'--"

The familiar strains of _Wishing Well_ cut him off, and all thought of distracting his husband is replaced by a sudden wave of longing and seven weeks' worth of eagerness.

"Jarvis?"

 _"Trace has been initiated, sir,"_ Jarvis answers.

"Lock down the gym and," he shares a glance with Steve, who has also gone tense with excitement, "Speakerphone."

There's a faint hiss over the room's loudspeakers and then a loud click.

"Bucky?" Steve asks eagerly.

 _\- "Hi," -_ Bucky says; he sounds so shy.

"Hey, sweetheart," Tony says gently. They won't lose one second with Bucky on this call--not if he can help it.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, concern bleeding into his voice. "Are you safe? Do you need anything?"

_\- "I don't need anything. Just--just to talk." -_

They share a pleased smile, and Tony gestures for Steve to continue.

"We're always happy to talk to you. We, uh, we’re in the gym, still burning off Thanksgiving dinner."

 _\- "Thanksgiving," -_ Bucky repeats blankly. _\- "…oh! Huh. I'm…sorry that I missed it." -_

His confusion makes something clench in Tony's chest. The years of captivity—of _slavery_ —have taken Bucky so far from homey American traditions as to nearly forget them; he's clearly been focused on simply _surviving_ day to day. It leaves a bitter taste in Tony's mouth, and suddenly the warm, if wistful, memory of Thanksgiving Day doesn't seem quite so appealing.

"We could have used your help eating all that food," he says anyway, keeping his tone light. "I make one hell of a deep-fried turkey."

 _\- "You **fried** the turkey?" -_ Bucky sounds appalled.

Steve grins. "I felt the same way at first, but it was actually really good."

"It's not crazy, it's _science_ ," Tony insists. "I used that new synthesized cooking oil from our Intellicrops division—uses about a third of the resources needed for _actual_ cooking oil, like growing olives or canola—"

"How about you, Bucky?" Steve interrupts with a wry smile shot Tony's way. "What's your favorite dish?"

_\- "My..." -_

"Your favorite Thanksgiving food," Tony clarifies, switching topics easily. "Turkey? Stuffing? Pumpkin pie?"

 _\- "I've…always liked cranberry sauce, I guess," -_ Bucky replies slowly, as if he's having trouble remembering. _\- "Just the stuff out of a can. They had it in the orphanage and in the Corps." -_

"That's always been one of my favorites, too," Steve agrees. "We'd get it with our K-Rations sometimes--I imagine it's a lot better these days, though."

Sudden clarity hits Tony, and he groans, covering his face. "Oh, god, I'm outnumbered."

_\- "Tony?" -_

"I just realized.... I can't believe that _both_ loves of my life are _soldiers from Brooklyn._ Do they put something in the water there, or maybe during boot camp? Subversive chemicals known to destroy tastebuds?"

Steve laughs and steps forward to take his hand, but Bucky doesn't respond for a moment. When he does, he sounds bewildered.

_\- "You can't… You can't just **say** things like that, Tony. Jesus. You don't know me." -_

"I want to," Tony replies immediately. "I want to know everything about you. Anything that you're willing to tell us. But I already know that you're gorgeous—inside and out. That your eyes crinkle up when you smile. That you would never, ever hurt anyone if given a choice. And now I know that you like food that’s still shaped like a can even _after_ it’s been scooped out, which has me seriously questioning the sanity of _both_ of you."

There's a huff of laughter on the speakers, and the sound has Tony about ready to burst with happiness. He tightens his hand around Steve's, sharing a stupid, silly grin.

"We love every single thing about you, Bucky," Steve agrees. "Everything."

The line is quiet for a long moment, from disbelief, maybe, or discomfort. It's almost long enough to become awkward, and Tony's stomach twists up in worry that they've driven Bucky _away_ , that they’re pushing too much--but then Bucky speaks again.

_\- "What's… What do you like? Your favorite food, I mean." -_

"Burgers," Tony replies instantly, and maybe a little dreamily. "Burgers are amazing. I will eat any kind of burger. I will eat fancy prime sirloins and cheap Burger King value menus—those are usually better, actually—Steve, stop giving me that look, grease is delicious."

Steve shakes his head, suppressed laughter twitching his lips. "I like Thai," he volunteers, much more thoughtfully. "It's kind of tied with Indian for my favorite. I only had them after I woke up, and they're just—so different from anything I'd tried before. All the different spices, you know?"

 _\- "Never got into Indian," -_ Bucky says. _\- "But Thai…. I haven't had Thai in a long time." -_

"First thing we'll get when you come, any place you want to go," Tony promises delightedly. Then he catches himself. "I mean—if you come. If you want to. Someday."

"We won't _make_ you do anything," Steve agrees. "We just…we really, really want to see you."

 _\- "I know, and I want.... Someday I'd like to…." -_ Bucky murmurs something unintelligible and then says with regret lacing his voice, _\- "I have to go." -_

"But--"

"It's okay," Steve says, cutting Tony off before he shoves his foot in his mouth. "We understand."

Tony squeezes Steve's hand in thanks before saying, "Hey, babe, just one last thing? It's getting cold in your…general, possible location. Are you staying warm? Do you have someplace to stay?"

There's a brief silence.

 _\- "We'll be alright," -_ Bucky says, voice soft and warm. _\- "We've all…. Well, I was a Marine, remember? I can handle the cold. Better yet, I'm from Brooklyn—we know cold winters, right, Steve?" -_

Steve looks troubled, but it doesn't come through in his voice when he says, "Yeah, we know cold winters. Stay warm, Bucky."

"Take care of yourself. Please call when you can--or if you need anything."

_\- "Goodbye." -_

The line clicks dead, followed immediately by Jarvis's report of, _"I'm afraid the trace failed, sir."_

"God!" Steve breathes, stepping away to lean into a punching bag. He squeezes the sides and presses his forehead into the heavy fabric.

Tony blinks at him.

"Hey, what is it? I thought that went really, really well."

Steve offers him a pained grimace.

"It's just…Brooklyn winters, Tony. People used to freeze to death. On the streets. Under bridges. If they don't have a place to stay—"

"That was eighty years ago," Tony says, laying a hand on his husband's shoulder. "There's better technology, now. Warmer materials, space-age shit. They make sleeping bags that can keep you warm in the fucking Arctic, okay? Bucky's smart and resourceful; they'll get their hands on whatever they need to survive."

Steve shakes his head without looking up, but his knuckles regain color as his grip relaxes.

"They'll be okay, Steve. And if anything happened--if one of them was seriously at risk--he'd call. You _know_ he'd call."

"He'd call," Steve acknowledges, finally lifting his head.

Tony can't resist kissing him, a quick, giddy thing. "That's the spirit. And in anticipation of which, I have a tracking algorithm to reinvent; there's got to be a way to get it at least 20% faster. Dinner in the lab tonight?"

"I'll pick something up," Steve agrees with a gentle shove to Tony's shoulder. "Go."

Tony bounces out of the gym with a wide grin on his face. Even though the trace had failed, the call had gone beautifully; they'd really made strides in reaching Bucky. And when he calls again, Tony will make sure he's ready for him.

* * *

**\-----March-----**

Tony wakes to the sound of music quickly silenced, followed by Steve's voice rumbling under his cheek. He groans and swats at his husband's ribs. He'd had a late night coding; Steve knows better than to wake him before he rises on his own. But the next voice brings him the rest of the way to consciousness.

_\- "So you just let him sleep all day?" -_

"He's stated he's not to be woken with anything short of a blowjob. Most days it's just not worth flattering his ego."

"Mmm, Bucky?" Tony groans, trying to force his eyes open.

 _\- "Morning, lazybones," -_ Bucky's fond tone warms Tony to his toes.

"He's even worse if I try to drag him out of the lab while he's working on something. He throws things. It's better just to let him work himself out and then crash."

Tony rolls to the side of the bed to grope for his tablet. He pulls up the trace and verifies that Jarvis has already started it while he scoots back to steal some body heat from Steve.

"You can stop spilling all my secrets, _honey_. I'm awake now."

_\- "Don't get up on my account." -_

"Speaking of secrets..." Tony can't help but tease, pulling up an image on the tablet. "We have a new picture of you."

Bucky's silent for a few seconds, then warily says, _\- "Oh?" -_

Steve gives Tony a quelling look before pulling him back against his chest. "Thank you for suggesting Dugan."

 _\- "Dammit," -_ Bucky sighs, but his voice is fond again. _\- "I can't believe you contacted him--no wait, I totally believe that. You're **you** , after all." -_

Tony grins; he loves when Bucky gripes at him.

Bucky hadn't called for help all winter, but he _had_ called just to talk. They'd been so careful during those few calls, sticking to safe topics, and it has paid off in Bucky's growing confidence with them.

"You're the one who said he might have photos."

_\- "And you totally tricked me into bringing him up!" -_

"You look so happy in this one," Steve says, wrapping around Tony to stroke a finger down the side of the tablet and smile at the image displayed. "You must have been having a good time."

_\- "What's going on in the picture?" -_

"You're wearing a beret and holding a bottle of wine. You're smiling at the camera, ear to ear, just...so happy."

 _\- "Oh, Dernier's birthday party," -_ Bucky says, and Tony can _hear_ his smile. _\- "His family shipped him a case of real French wine. It was a month late by the time it made it through channels, but the unit helped him drink it all in one night." -_

The flush of wine is visible in his cheeks, his eyes bright with laughter, his uniform partly unbuttoned. When Dugan had sent the file, Tony and Steve had gasped simultaneously. The carefree young man in the photo looks a decade younger than the grim-faced prisoner they'd faced in Austria. Imagining what could have happened in the two intervening years to effect such a drastic change had had Tony threatening to burn the world down.

_\- "Dugan got each of us to pose for portraits that night when we were too drunk to weasel out of it. He claimed it was future blackmail material, but we all knew he was secretly sentimental about his men." -_

"It sounds like he took good care of you," Steve says.

 _\- "He was way better than I ever deserved," -_ Bucky agrees, and Tony quashes the same jealousy he'd felt when Dugan had spoken of Bucky. _\- "You didn't...did you tell him about me?" -_

"No," Tony assures him, but is then compelled to admit, "But he guessed."

Both Starks calling out of the blue to ask about Dugan's missing sub, demanding pictures and all but falling apart when faced with one--it had only been reasonable to conclude that Bucky was the bonded submissive they were looking for. They'd denied it at first, but the man had pleaded so passionately for news of Bucky, citing weeks spent searching the Alps in vain, that eventually Tony had relented and admitted that Bucky was alive.

Bucky hisses a breath. _\- "I didn't ever want him to know how much I disappointed--" -_

"He couldn't possibly think that," Steve assures him. "When he found out you were alive all this time, he blamed himself for not disobeying orders and continuing the search."

_\- "He'd never have found me, though! He can't think--" -_

"He was your _dom_ , Bucky. He took that responsibility seriously. Losing you ripped him up inside; a dominant doesn't just recover from a loss like that."

Tony gapes at Steve's earnestness, twisting his head awkwardly to try to see his expression.

Even Bucky hesitates a moment before saying softly, _\- "I would have thought you'd be jealous. You're being so **kind**." -_

"Back in my time, with the Invaders, there was a sub in my unit. He had to keep it secret or risk court martial, but he told me. It was an honor to take care of him. I was humbled that he trusted me with his submission; it was the greatest privilege I'd ever known."

 _\- "Steve," -_ Bucky says wonderingly.

Tony shivers at the realization that this must be what Bucky sounds like when he's falling in love--and that he's never really understood Steve's story before, not like he does now whenever he thinks of Bucky.

_\- "What happened to him, after you fell in the ice? Did you ever look him up?" -_

Steve stiffens. "Jonath--"

"We didn't tell Dugan about HYDRA," Tony interrupts, intertwining his fingers with Steve's comfortingly. He hopes Bucky's too distracted by the new topic to notice the obvious diversion. "We know you wouldn't want him to find out like that."

_\- "Tony, I--" -_

"Just tell us you're taking care of yourselves," Steve blurts. "I know it must be hard finding someone you can trust on the run, I can't imagine, but you need to see to your own needs."

 _\- "I...what?" -_ Bucky sounds startled.

"We're not jealous. We could never begrudge you what you need to survive."

_\- "We don't **need** anything. We're doing **fine**." -_

Bucky's voice has gone hard, and Tony has only a moment of incredulity before suspicion takes its place. He pulls away from Steve and curls around the tablet with the pretense of checking on the trace, but he checks another statistic first, and his eyes narrow with surprise.

"It's natural, Bucky. It's not something you can just ignore. We worry that you're not taking care of--"

 _\- "We're done talking about this," -_ Bucky says abruptly.

Steve shuts his mouth and looks at Tony helplessly. Nothing had gone this badly in the last few calls.

Finally Tony ventures, "The rest of your unit are still together. Dugan says they're all okay."

 _\- "That's good," -_ Bucky says, voice stiff, but then he sighs and repeats softly, _\- "That's really good. Thank you, Tony." -_

"Tell us a story. Something else about Dernier's party," Steve entreats, trying to salvage the conversation, but Bucky sighs again.

_\- "There's no time. But this was--this was nice. Thank you for the news. And for answering." -_

"Always," Steve promises.

"We love you, sweetheart."

_\- "Goodbye." -_

Tony barely hears Jarvis's report of the trace's failure; he's too busy setting up a query referencing all seven of their calls to date.

"Tony," Steve's hand on his shoulder finally gets his attention. "What is it? If you've found something...."

He fights down the rising excitement. "I don't think they've found a dom, babe. I think they're in denial. He got mad because you reminded him of something he'd rather forget."

"Christ," Steve whispers, reaching for his hand. "How can they stand it?"

But Tony turns back to his tablet. "I have to do some more calculations, but I think he's been using these calls in place of finding a dom. And if I'm right and there's a pattern here, I may be able to predict when he'll call. Can you imagine what an advantage like this will mean for my search algorithm? No more passive monitoring, I'm talking timed, aggressive takeovers of all the telecom systems in the hemisphere--"

"Then he's not calling because he wants us. He's calling because he's forced to."

The words stop Tony in his tracks.

"Steve, don't think that," he offers lamely, setting aside the tablet to provide what little comfort he can. "He loves us. We heard it in his voice." Despite his reassurances, Tony's frantically trying to remember whether Bucky had ever once seemed to welcome their professions of love.

"He'll barely hold a four-minute conversation with us! If he loved us, he'd be here _with_ us!"

"You know it's not easy for him; we promised we'd be understanding."

"He doesn't, Tony. This is just the bond forcing his hand--oh, God, what's it doing to him? Is he suffering?"

Tony stares at his husband, speechless. In some part of his mind--the part that's _not_ reeling in horror--he's vaguely aware that his mouth is hanging open. It's true that the tight knot of anxiety in his chest had eased when Bucky first initiated contact. He's been able to pass off the remaining strain as simple worry for his missing sub. But perhaps it's a symptom of the incomplete bond. The idea that Bucky's using them is painful, but still worse is the realization that if biological necessity is what's been driving these calls, then how much worse must his symptoms be? Every call improves Tony's chances of finding him; what could drive Bucky to risk his freedom with increasing frequency?

Steve's too experienced a soldier to hesitate in the face of devastating news. "I'm calling that specialist, Dr. Cooper," he says, rising swiftly and reaching for his clothes. "We need answers, and maybe she...I don't know, but maybe she knows what's happening to Bucky."

"Fuck, Steve, I didn't--I didn't think--"

"I'll clear our calendars for a meeting. Hey," he steps back and bends to touch Tony's cheek. "Love you."

Tony leans forward to press his forehead to Steve's. "Nngh, god, I love you, too, babe. But Bucky...."

"I'll let you know when our meeting will be." Steve kisses him briefly and heads out of the room.

Tony turns back to his calculations, more desperate than ever to locate their sub.

* * *

**\-----April 21-----**

"You're _sure_ the Hungary routine's ready? No funny business like last week, Jarvis. I don't need any _politikusok_ accusing me of crashing the entire country's telecom system again," Tony scolds as he triple checks the command sequences.

 _"That 'funny business' was a result of human error, sir, and will not happen again. I've taken the liberty of re-testing all of the Eastern European satellites; we are ready to deploy,"_ Jarvis intones long-sufferingly.

Tony smiles mechanically at the AI's insolence, but his heart's not in it. It's been thirty-two days--and two calls--since he noticed the pattern, and the initial excitement has soured to doubt and self-loathing. Their most recent declarations of love have been met with an affectionate tone but no return of sentiment. Their appeals that Bucky come home to them have all been gently--but firmly--rebuffed. Every moment between calls is now tainted by the suspicion that Bucky is only acting out of physical need and doesn't ever plan to come to them willingly. 

If Dr. Cooper's theories are to be believed, he's suffering in some unknown way from the incomplete bond. Maybe the calls are enough to alleviate some or all of the symptoms, but based on the ever-decreasing time between calls, they aren't enough to stabilize him. 

But whatever his reason for calling, he _needs_ them. And whether it's to protect him from the world that has wrongly convicted him or to spare him the pain that the incomplete bond is causing, they're going to make sure he gets what he needs. And even though the very act of waiting at his computers with brute-force hacks of every cellular satellite over Europe queued up and ready to deploy feels like a betrayal...if all Tony can do is lie in wait to use Bucky's weakness against him, he'll do it to bring him home safe.

168 minutes into the 17-hour window he'd predicted, _Wishing Well_ plays on the lab speakers.

"Now!"

_"Accessing satellites."_

The phone rests on the desk before him, vibrating repeatedly, and his fingers itch to snatch it up. But he exhales through the urgency and makes himself wait for the programs to finish enslaving the satellites.

The music plays on, grating already frayed nerves. Each second is torture, not knowing what condition Bucky's in; the thought that Tony's withholding relief makes it hard to even breathe. But every extra moment he can give the trace brings him that much closer to finding Bucky before anyone else does--and before Dr. Cooper's direst predictions can come to pass. He drums his fingers frantically as he watches telecom systems come online: Poland's Eutelsat, Hungary's Intelsat.

He'd sworn they'd always answer Bucky's calls. And he will. He'd _sworn_ it. 

He just needs Bucky to hold on another few seconds.

Spain's Hisdesat. Norway's Telenor.

"Almost, almost." 

England's Inmarsat.

_"Sir."_

"Almost there!" 

France's Stellat.

_"The call will disconnect in five seconds."_

Oh, Jesus, what if he misses him? He grabs the mobile with fumbling hands, stabbing for the speakerphone button. "Shitshitshit. Hello? Bucky?" he calls into the sudden silence of the lab.

_\- "Is everything okay? You sound--" -_

"Yeah, no, everything's fine, sweetheart. Everything's fine. I just didn't want to miss you." He takes a deep breath and pushes onward, "How are you?" 

_\- "I'm fine. Is Steve not around?" -_

"He'll be a little late today. He's in a security thing, and it may take him a minute to get some privacy." While not technically a lie, the obfuscation makes him physically ill, and he shoves one hand through his hair and pulls hard, trying to concentrate past the twist in his gut.

_\- "Okay.... Umm, I saw a news report about you two." -_

"Yeah?" Greece's Hellas-Sat and several other satellites come online, and each one makes him more anxious. Only one left.

_\- "You were at a charity event. A gala for firemen." -_

"Oh, yeah, the Stark Foundation's Firefighter Something Something," he agrees absently. Goddamn German engineering...yes! Deutsche Telekom lights up, the final piece of the puzzle. 

"Pepper makes me go to those things. Well, Pepper and Steve."

_\- "I saw the red carpet pictures. You both looked so handsome in tuxedos." -_

Tony tries to remember the event from just a few days ago. All that comes to mind, though, is the empty space between him and Steve as they'd stood before the photographers, and the sudden, nauseating certainty that he'd do _anything_ to fill it. He'd make a bargain with whomever he had to to get Bucky back. He'd make weapons again, as long as he could shut the three of them away behind closed doors and not face the consequences. Worst of all, he'd force Bucky home and find a way to _keep_ him against his will; he'd become exactly as monstrous as those HYDRA slavers if it meant he could have Bucky _with him_.

Tony had nearly turned them both around then, too horrified by himself to maintain the façade for the cameras. Only Steve's determination to do right by the charity had gotten them inside.

He swallows hard against the remembered nausea, averting his eyes from the programs that are currently hunting every cellular signal on the continent for Bucky's location. 

"Ehh," he finally mumbles lamely, aware that Bucky's waiting but unable to find anything to say that isn't desperate begging or abject pleas for forgiveness. "Gotta look good for the press, you know, with the stock price literally riding my coattails...."

_\- "Oh, I.... I just thought it was so nice to see you going about your lives, getting back to normal. But...you sound busy. I'm-- It's good that you're busy. I should go--" -_

"No! No, don't hang up!" Tony blurts, panicking. "There _is_ no normal--not without you! Business, charities, all that bullshit--they're nothing without you with us!" He needs to get a grip on himself. He knows better than to come on this strong; their desperation--their _unwanted affection_ \--always scares Bucky away.

 _\- "Tony," -_ Bucky starts, obviously taken aback, and it's _cruel_ that he keeps calling when he doesn't want them, Tony's going to lose his _mind_ at this rate--

" _Please_ , Bucky--"

The click of another caller engaging saves him.

_\- "Bucky?" -_

_\- "Steve, hi." -_

"Hi, babe," Tony says shakily as Jarvis helpfully pulls up live satellite video over Steve's location in Moldova, zooming in on a silhouette pacing outside of a burning building. Just as Tony's escalated his digital search for Bucky in the past month, Steve's accelerated his own timeline. Even knowing Bucky might call, Steve couldn't be dissuaded from taking a HYDRA compound tonight.

Tony strains to make his voice casual when he asks, "Everything go okay with SHIELD?"

 _\- "Tell me about Ebersol," -_ Steve demands. The words are far from the carefully vague phrasing they'd scripted. Tony's suddenly gripped with dread, wondering what Steve's discovered.

There's shocked silence from Bucky's end, so Steve barrels on. 

_\- "I know he hurt you, Bucky. Tell me what he did." -_

_\- "Where did you--?" -_ Bucky starts in a small voice, and Tony’s heart trembles to hear his fear for the first time.

_\- "I'm burning a HYDRA outpost to the ground. One of the officers has been quite talkative." -_

Bucky inhales sharply.

 _Oh, fuck fuck fuck. Now Steve's blown it._ Tony crosses his fingers and prays.

_\- "You're...no. **No.** I didn't know you were--I don't want you anywhere near HYDRA--" -_

Steve snarls. _\- "That bionic bastard's got people looking for you. He's offering a reward to anyone that brings you--specifically **you** \--in alive." -_

Tony freezes, horrified by the implications of that statement. They'd assumed that HYDRA had been chasing all _three_ escapees. If a top officer like Paul Ebersol is specifically targeting Bucky, it could be a question of revenge or--. He balks before finishing the thought, but still the idea of Bucky once more facing the same fate he'd already escaped keeps Tony paralyzed. 

_\- "I'm going to find him and kill him. Do you understand? I'm going to rip him apart with my own hands. But I need you to tell me, Bucky. What did he do? Did he torture you? Touch you?" -_ Steve's voice has gone dark, dangerous; Tony numbly thinks that Steve wouldn't want Bucky to hear him like this, not if he were thinking straight.

He wonders if there's blood on his husband's hands right now. He's not sorry for whomever it might belong to.

But Bucky is breathing audibly, possibly freaking out at the awful memories being dredged up, possibly just scared of _Steve_. 

_\- "Stop," -_ he says. _\- "Just stop. I need to think...." -_

 _\- "Dammit, Bucky, tell me!" -_ Steve demands. 

_He's terrifying their sub._

A rush of adrenaline finally jolts Tony into action.

“Steven, shut up!” he barks. “We need you to calm the hell down, okay, soldier? You're scaring us.” He waits a few moments in tense silence until Steve sighs, relenting. “And Bucky? Baby? I'm sorry, okay? You know we get worried; we're so scared for you all the time, and we don't know how to keep you safe. Are you okay? Sweetheart?"

 _\- "Yeah," -_ Bucky eventually says, and even though his tone is strange, Tony sighs with relief. _\- "You just want me **safe**." -_

On the satellite feed, Steve gives up his agitated pacing and sinks to the ground.

Tony continues, "Thank you. Thank you for being patient with us. Just...can you tell us something, _anything_ about Ebersol? Whatever you're comfortable with. If he's looking for you, we have to find him first."

Bucky's response is slow and resolute. _\- "No. I won't." -_

"But--"

_\- "We don't talk about those years. I will **never** tell you what happened. I want you to stop asking about it. That goes for your interrogations, too, Steve. Stop looking into my past." -_

_\- "No, please!" -_ Steve cries, and Tony’s heart breaks at the desperation in his husband’s voice. _\- "Please, I need to do this for you. I'm going to find every one of them that ever hurt you, and I'm going to make them pay. Just give me their names, baby. Just tell me who I'm looking for." -_

 _\- "You have to stop," -_ and there's that warning edge again, the one they'd heard when Steve pushed too hard about subs needing a dom.

"Steve," Tony cautions, but Steve's already picking up speed.

_\- "You don't know what it's like, the not knowing. When I've got a HYDRA soldier in my hands and I can't be sure if he's one of the ones who hurt you, it makes me crazy. I **need** to know: Who touched you?" -_

_\- "If you can't respect my wishes in this, we're done," -_ Bucky says, deadly serious, and Tony’s blood runs cold to hear him drop all trace of affection.

“Steve, _stop_ ,” he says urgently, but he’s too late.

_\- "You can't ask that of me. Please, Bucky! Please don't ask that of--" -_

The all too familiar click of a cut connection echoes down the line.

 _\- "Fuck!" -_ Steve shouts.

Tony sinks into his chair, deflated with failure, still horrified by how completely the call had fallen apart. Was it fear that had made Bucky's voice so forbidding? Had Steve's interrogation pushed him beyond what he could endure? Or was he finally tired of pretending an emotional attachment?

No good can come of dwelling on it. He concentrates instead on the very real threat to Bucky's safety. They need to bring him home _now_ , before HYDRA get their hands on him again.

Resolved, he dismisses the 'Search Incomplete' message from the screens. "We have to find Bucky before he does."

_\- "You weren't here, Tony, you didn't hear what he said. That goon, when he mentioned the reward, he smirked and said that Bucky was Ebersol's ' **favorite**.' I just..." -_

"Christ," Tony whispers, and his hand shakes as he terminates the programs, releasing the satellites. "Come home. We'll talk to Fury, see what he knows about this bastard. We'll come up with a plan to take him out."

_\- "He'll call back, won't he? I didn't...." -_

"Yeah, he'll call back," Tony sighs and starts the countdown to Bucky's next call: 96 hours. "It's not like he has a choice."

* * *

**\-----April 24-----**

"There are a lot of traffic cameras offline in Shabany," Steve insists, stubbornly pointing to the dark spot on the map of Minsk. He's still not letting the goddamn Shabany property go, even though it's got to be Chizhovka, it's _clearly_ Chizhovka, Tony will _prove it_ if it's the last thing he does. But the gesture has Steve leaning over him, chest pressing warmly to Tony's back in the first contact they've shared all day.

Tony relaxes into it--before suddenly realizing it's a ploy meant to distract him.

"That goes for Chizhovka, too," he counters, gesturing to the neighborhood just inside the city limits. "And this building has higher electricity usage at strange hours."

 _"If I may, sir,"_ Jarvis cuts in. _"I've completed my analysis of the financial records of the local police force."_

"Shock me."

_"Roughly one quarter of the patrolmen in the Shabany area have come into substantial sums of money in the last few months."_

"Hah!" Tony exclaims, typing rapidly on a virtual display as he continues, "And since we know HYDRA doesn't bother with bribes, all signs point to..." he pulls up a satellite-TV bill for the property and gestures with both hands, blowing up the entry for a foreign soap opera, "Lithuanian terrorists--with poor taste in trash TV. You owe me one sensual back rub in Fury's office--don't forget the sandalwood oil."

"Lithuanians," Steve repeats, dubious. "In Belarus?"

"Hey, the heat's on in Vilnius. If you're going to conspire against Moscow, you've gotta do your stockpiling off site," he quips with a manic grin. He's aware that he's talking too loudly, that all his smiles are short of sincere and his jokes are falling flat; it seems to be all he can manage today.

"Fine, local terrorists. We'll have SHIELD tip off Interpol. That means the HYDRA safehouse is in Chizhovka," Steve says, pulling away to study Jarvis's virtual construct of the neighborhood.

"Assuming the tip Fury got out of your new Moldovan friends is good, you'd better brush up on your Russian." A shiver runs up Tony's spine, but he can't tell if it's because the loss of Steve's warmth allows the horror of the day to sink back into his bones, or because this discovery means his husband will be leaving immediately. "Just--maybe don't leave today? You need to slow down, anyway. You've been acting so fast--

"You know I can't slow down now. Everyone's intensified their search in light of the anniversary; he's in more danger than ever. And this new lead could be the break we--"

 _Wishing Well_ starts over the lab speakers, and Tony jumps to his feet, seized by a sudden urge to flee. He immediately feels guilty--he should be stronger for their sub--but he'd rather cut off his own ear than face what's coming. 

Steve's hands rest firmly on Tony's shoulders, keeping him in place.

_"Trace has been initiated, sir. Satellites are being brought online now."_

Tony takes a shaky breath and sinks back into the chair, covering Steve's hands with his own to steel himself. 

"Thanks, Jarvis. Keep it off the screens and put Bucky on speakerphone now." After a moment of silence he says, "Hello?"

"Bucky?"

 _\- "You weren't at the memorial dedication today," -_ Bucky's voice is hard, cold like it was when he hung up on them just three days ago.

Tony winces, wondering if Bucky was reckless enough to attend the ceremony or if he watched the same television coverage that they did. Either speaks to a masochistic streak that makes Tony ache in sympathy.

"No," Steve agrees, displaying remarkable calm. "We weren't."

_\- "Couldn't stomach what I've done, could you? Hearing the names of my victims might make you remember their faces." -_

"They weren't _your_ victims." Tony objects automatically. He'll never forget the faces of the dead he pulled from the rubble in Paris--he's spent the last year haunted by his failure to save them--but even more he hates the bastards that forced Bucky to do it. The last thing Tony could ever do is blame him.

 _\- "Who made the plan? Who placed the charges and pushed the detonator? The rest of the world apparently knows me better than you do." -_ The spite in Bucky's voice is worse than anything Tony'd braced himself for, but he has to try to reach his submissive somehow.

"They don't know the whole story--not like we do. That's why we couldn't go to the service. We didn't want.... The timing's not right. We can't afford for anyone to connect you to us, not like that." Only Bucky's hiss of indrawn breath makes Tony realize what he's implied. He gestures frantically for Steve to explain.

"What he means is that people would have asked questions. Wondered why the Starks were finally making an appearance in uniform, why at _that_ event?" Steve says smoothly, and Tony wonders how he can be so steady in the face of Bucky's bitterness. "They could have put together that our press conference aired barely a month after the Élysée attack, and that we'd been on the hunt for the perpetrators at that time. We can't risk drawing their attention to you. Not like that."

_\- "But I **am** the perpetrator. You can't change that with wishing. In this fantasy world of yours, how do you keep it a secret?" -_

This, at least, Tony is ready for. "We control the information, release it the way we want. We don't let them drag it out with rumor and speculation."

 _\- "You already have the press releases drafted, don't you?" -_ Bucky demands, incredulous, and Tony twitches guiltily. _\- "A full PR plan for when I've 'come home,' drawn up months ago as though I'm a--a foregone conclusion. Hell, that interview was probably Phase One of your master plan." -_

Tony looks back at Steve helplessly, unprepared to defend the strategy they had worked on for so long, but also unable to lie and deny it.

 _\- "Fuck. Tony, Steve..." -_ He sounds so tired all of a sudden. 

Tony hates himself for preferring this defeated version of Bucky to the cold anger, but at least he can fool himself that there's a faint echo of affection in his voice.

_\- "What do you know about me that you haven't said? How close have you gotten? Do you know where I am now? Where I was last week? Last month?" -_

"We know you didn't want to do any of it," Steve tries to change the topic.

But Bucky isn't having it, and his voice goes hard again when he demands, _\- "Tell me now. All of it. How close are you?" -_

"We've found some cars," Tony admits. "But always more than a week after you've abandoned them. You're very good at hiding them."

_\- "How?" -_

"Bucky, please, don't--"

_\- " **How?** " -_

"Background noise if you're in a city. And when you've called from a car, I analyzed the sound of the engine and determined the model and year, and compared it to a database of stolen vehicle reports."

_\- "Jesus. And what about the phones? Surveillance cameras?" -_

"Yes." Tony bites his tongue to keep from trying to justify his actions. He'd always known Bucky would view this as a betrayal.

_\- "How wide is your net, Tony? Europe? The northern hemisphere? Worldwide?" -_

"I just want to _protect_ you!" he protests, grateful for Steve's rock-steady hands on his shoulders as the guilt threatens to drown him.

_\- "Yeah. And you, Steve? What are **you** doing to 'protect' me? Attacking HYDRA bases when you're not cozying up to Dugan for more wartime stories, huh? Does it make you feel righteous, killing terrorists in secret? Interrogating HYDRA for the secrets I won't tell you? All this lying is making me feel real **protected**." -_

Although Steve's fingers don't so much as twitch during Bucky's attack, Tony can't make himself turn and look at his husband's face, afraid of the hurt he'll see there.

And that's just unacceptable. Tony can make excuses for him, pretend it's just the anniversary talking, but this is deliberate cruelty. He won't stand by and let Bucky accuse _Steve_ of treachery.

"No, dammit, you knew about _all_ these things! You knew about the cameras long before you ever called us, or you'd have been spotted by now. You knew I was tracing the calls, but you've kept calling. Steve told you up front that he was going after HYDRA. You knew we were looking for you, and _you didn't even tell us to stop_ , Bucky, so instead we stopped talking about it. It's not our fault you didn't want to hear it."

Bucky's momentary pause sounds like a hit to Tony, but then he snarls, _\- "I **tried** to tell you to stop, but you were both so pathetic, begging me not to make you. Clearly I've humored your obsession too long. It all stops **now**. Do you both hear me?" -_

And maybe it's panic at that impossible ultimatum, or hurt at the revelation that Bucky feels absolutely nothing for them. Maybe it's the past month of increasing doubt and desperation, or today's unrelenting sorrow. But Tony's face goes hot, and he springs to his feet, taking a deep breath to lash out with his last piece of ammunition.

"Tony, you don't want to have this fight, not today," Steve says urgently, trying to pull him back against his chest, but Tony can barely hear him over the rushing in his ears.

"No, this is _exactly_ the fight I want. So _we're_ using _you_ , huh? Depending on you to feed _our_ obsession? Well here's a reality check: We're not the ones making these calls. We're not the ones reaching for the phone earlier and earlier every time. Look how often you're calling now, _sweetheart_ \--" and he hates himself even as he sneers the endearment, but he can't seem to stop. "You can't even make it a whole week without a fix, can you? Talk about a 'foregone conclusion;' I can _set my watch_ by your calls! I may be a workaholic, alcoholic asshole, but at least I acknowledge my addictions."

There's silence after his tirade. Tony manages only a few ragged breaths before the enormity of what he's just done catches up with him and leaves him reeling, collapsing back into Steve's arms.

"Oh god," he whispers, but before either of them can even say his name, try to smooth things over, Bucky responds.

 _\- "Thank you for your time, Mr. Stark. Captain Stark. I won't call again." -_ His voice has a terrifying ring of finality to it, as does the click of disconnection that immediately follows.

"No, no, what did I do?"

Steve squeezes his shoulders but doesn't utter any of the platitudes Tony had offered many times in his place. Instead he takes a deep breath and says, "You told him the truth. And he needed to hear it. We should have talked to him about the instability of the bond a month ago."

"I hurt him. I accused him of _using_ us! ...But, god, he sounded--. He was so cruel to you--"

"He was spoiling for a fight when he picked up the phone. We knew the anniversary would be hard for him; of course he's trying to put distance between us."

Steve's right, of course. Tony'd known the entire time they kept their vigil, watching the solemn parade on the site of the Peace Summit bombing that had killed hundreds. They'd held themselves apart, each lost in his own horror and outrage. HYDRA had stained Bucky's hands with so much innocent blood; it's miraculous he'd been able to reach out to them at all. No matter what his motivations, the last thing Bucky needed today was Tony's hurtful words.

"What if I drove him away for good? He sounded so determined. What if he hurts himself by not calling? Cooper warned that--"

"He'll call," Steve assures him. "You know he'll call."

Tony turns in Steve's arms, pushing his face into his husband's chest. "Of course he will," he agrees by rote, but inside he's begging:

_Please. Please let him call._

* * *

**\-----April 27-----**

Bucky doesn't call.

The numbers smear across his vision. Tony shakes his head and takes another sip of cold coffee, then erases the last few lines of gibberish he'd written in place of code. There's no time for this. He can't sleep. He hasn't slept. Not in 56 hours. Nearly 70 since Bucky last called.

Bucky had been due to call just over a day after he'd hung up on them so dramatically. They'd waited. They'd waited up all that night and the next day, assuring each other that Bucky was fine, that they hadn't driven him away, that his love for them--or at least biological necessity--would lead him to call again. But still no call came.

He's been right here in front of his computers, doors locked against Pepper, reworking his analyses of the few locations he's managed to tie Bucky to, frantically looking for a pattern, anything to lead them to him. 

He's actually drifted off once or twice, but each time another wave of anxiety has him leaping from his chair less than a minute later. His panic has only grown as the minutes tick by, as he wonders if Bucky's somehow hurting himself by keeping his silence. 

The thought starts him pacing again. He circles the lab, pushing aside the failure of his equations and stopping before the repaired Iron Man armor in its protective case. Bucky's in pain, and here he is, still in his fucking isolation tank, accomplishing nothing. He should be out there, tearing the world apart like Steve. He's saved a lot of people in the suit, done a lot of good. But the first thing he ever did in it was watch a good man die, and the last thing he'd done was watch them drag Bucky away while he lay helpless to stop them--it'd been like having his heart ripped out all over again.

He snarls and abandons the suit, stands over the desk to gulp more coffee. He ignores the tremble in his hand. What's 56 hours? Bucky needs him. This silence between them is his fault. And if he works until his vision blurs and his fingers shake, it's no better than he deserves.

And it's not like Steve is faring any better in the field. 

Steve has handled the wait even worse than Tony, if that's possible, fleeing the Tower for Minsk and dismantling the HYDRA safehouse there. In a nod to Bucky's wishes, he brought his prisoners back to SHIELD's headquarters in New York to allow Fury to do the interrogating. 

He's already admitted to Tony that he suspects he's on a wild goose chase at this point, that all the tantalizing clues will amount to nothing. But he's still just as locked in his routines as Tony is, insisting on watching every useless, identical interview because there's nothing else to do to help.

They've driven their sub away, and there doesn't seem to be anything they can do to fix things.

This is Tony's fault. He'd never meant to hurt Bucky. He should have been stronger, been the stalwart dom that Bucky deserved, one that didn't flinch from his submissive's pain. He should have understood Bucky's mindset on the anniversary and not taken offense when he lashed out. Bucky'd been hurting; he'd needed them to be patient and forgiving. Instead Tony'd struck right back.

Tony hasn't slept in days. That excuses anything--hell, in some states, it excuses _manslaughter_. It certainly excuses the way the mug slips from his hands when the song booms over the lab speakers.

He lunges for the phone, calling out before he's even hit 'Answer.'

"Hello? Bucky?"

Silence. 

Clearly he's still angry. But at least he's calling; they haven't truly lost him. This time Tony's going to do it right. He won't push--nothing more than Bucky's comfortable with. He'll tone down the endearments--the last thing he wants to do is remind Bucky of his cruel words. But first, apologies:

"God, Bucky, I'm sorry. We're both so sorry, we didn't mean--"

 _\- "Tell him to wake up." -_ The man's voice is tense, unfamiliar.

Tony freezes. _No one_ has this number. Worst-case scenarios flash before his eyes. Bucky's been grabbed-- _please god not HYDRA_ \--and his captors forced him to tell them the number-- 

He makes himself ask, "Who is--"

_\- "Just tell him to fucking wake up, Stark." -_

His _name_. There's no way HYDRA would risk calling him directly, not even to gloat. That could only mean-- "Is this...Barton?"

_\- " **Wake him up**." -_

"Look, I don't--" The meaning of Barton's words hits him like an electric shock, his world suddenly reducing to a horrible buzzing in his ears, to Obadiah's voice murmuring "Oh, it's beautiful, Tony," and the sound of his own heart slowing down.

He clutches frantically at the arc reactor, relieved to discover it's still there, DUM-E'd gotten it to him in time, it isn't too late--only to realize that it _is_ too late. Bucky'd waited too long--

"Oh god, no. Oh god." He wipes his face with a trembling hand and struggles to pull himself together. His submissive needs him. He has to find the _words._

"Bucky? Baby, it's me, it's Tony. I'm here, alright? I'm still here, Steve and I are both still here for you, we always will be, and--and we're so sorry about before, we never meant to drive you away. We'll work something out, I swear, but you've got to wake up for me, okay?" 

No answer. 

"Please, sweetheart, wake up. Bucky--c'mon, baby, you have to--" he chokes, mouth gone dry with terror, the sound of Obadiah's retreating footsteps ringing in his ears. He swallows and forces more words past the tightness in his throat. 

"You have to wake up. Don't do this to us, please! We need you; it's so, _so_ hard without you, we can't--if you're not-- You have to wake up!"

There's a faint groan, and before he can even consciously decide whether it's Bucky's voice, his whole body goes slack with relief, leaving him gripping the desk to keep his feet. 

He takes his first deep breath in days and coaxes, "Rise and shine, sleepyhead. Open those beautiful blue eyes for me."

_\- "Tony?" -_

He'd know that beloved voice anywhere, even sleepy and disoriented.

"Oh, thank god, Bucky--"

The call disconnects with a click.

"What? No. _No!_ " Tony shouts. "Jarvis--!"

 _"I'm sorry, sir,"_ the AI says, voice subdued. _"The number has already been disconnected."_

"No, he can't be gone! He _needs_ me, he--" Tony stumbles, suddenly woozy, but adrenaline is still flooding his veins, urging him to act.

_"I've taken the liberty of alerting Captain Stark and Ms. Potts."_

"He was unconscious! He waited too long, and they couldn't wake him up. Merciful fuck, this could kill him. _I_ did this. I drove him away. This is all my fault--"

He staggers toward the armor, cursing the workbench for blocking his path. He fumbles with the keypad on the plexiglass hatch. "He needs me--I have to go to him."

The hatch stays shut. He frowns and enters the pass code again. The keys swim before his eyes.

"Jarvis, open the hatch." He tries again, squinting hard to get the blurry numbers to stabilize. Nothing; his command code has been locked out. 

_"In your current condition--"_ Jarvis starts.

Tony blinks and tries to concentrate, thinks _56 hours_ , thinks _vehicular manslaughter_ , but then he remembers Bucky's voice saying his name, so small and lost, and he punches the glass furiously. "J, I swear to God if you don't open--"

Blinding pain in his knuckles makes him pause long enough for clarity to finally catch up with him.

Where the hell is he _going?_

The trace was incomplete--even more so than usual--Bucky's companions had seen to that. He could be _anywhere_. There is literally _nothing_ Tony can do right now to help his sub, not as a billionaire, not as a technological genius, not as Iron Man, and not even as the young man's unwanted dominant. If Bucky is so determined not to call, if he truly hates them so much, then this is how it will end: an inexorable slide into unconsciousness and death. 

Defeat is bitter on his tongue. His knees give out, and he slumps against the case, puts his back to it and slides down the cool surface, cradling his bleeding hand.

_"Ms. Potts will be here in 45 seconds. I am to tell you that if you do not let her in this time she will resign and take the entire R &D department with her."_

He barks out an ugly laugh. "Sure, why not? She's seen me fuck up everything else I care about. Let her see this, too. Be just like old times."

 _"Is there anything I can get you, sir?"_ If he didn't know better, Tony would swear Jarvis sounds worried.

"Steve," he says, and it's a struggle to get out even the one word through the crushing despair. He bangs his head against the plexiglass because, fuck it, it's not like he can do anything more productive. "Get Steve here."

The lab door slides open, the rapid clicking of Pepper's heels becoming audible.

"Tony?"

_"At once, sir."_


	7. Chapter 7

"We could try Brno, ditch the Octavia in Cejl," Clint says, patting the wheel of the sedan.

"Too close to Tabor," Natasha says.

Bucky grimaces. Tabor was half a year ago, well before winter's chill chased them south.

It's been nearly a year since their escape—they should be starting to relax their guard, to think about putting down roots, maybe even staying in one place for a couple weeks. But what began as flight from their pursuers has become a need to put as many kilometers as possible between phone calls. And with Bucky's worsening dependence, they've had to speed up their travel. Soon they'll be out of time and destinations.

"We're going to Smolensk," she declares.

Clint starts, but keeps his eyes on the road. "You said you'd never go back to Russia."

Bucky narrows his eyes. "There's nothing there except diamonds. Are we turning jewel thieves, Tasha?"

"You'll like the vodka museum, Clint," she says blithely.

" _No_ ," Bucky says firmly. "I know what you're planning, and the answer's _still no_."

Natasha turns around in her seat to meet his eyes, no trace of friendliness in her expression. "You haven't left us much choice, have you? It's past time we did something about it."

She's been pressuring Bucky to find a permanent solution for weeks. But the whispering between her and Clint started in earnest two days ago, shortly after he'd woken to find them standing over him, the echo of Tony's gentle voice still warm in his ear. Her proposal, when she eventually brought it to him, wasn't surprising; he'd seen Clint recoil from her murmured words.

She wants to attempt to subvert the incomplete bond by having him submit to another dom. They'll abduct a dominant, using a blindfold so they can't be identified, and force him or her to drop Bucky. Hopefully—however improbably—being dropped will replace his need to call the Starks...or at least allow him to go longer between calls. When it's done, they'll flee as far and as fast as they can in hopes of outrunning the inevitable pursuit.

While she hadn't shared a location for this kidnapping, Russia makes sense. She'd be able to blend in as a native and locate a target easily. And since they all speak Russian (thanks to years of her tutoring), there would be no barrier to understanding exactly what the dom was ordering Bucky to do.

It's perfectly Natasha, taking such pains to keep him safe while utterly disregarding his decision.

"I _will_ do something about the bond. But not that. _Never_ that."

The very idea is anathema. The thought of going under for a dom that's not _his_ makes Bucky physically ill. Even though it can never be, he _belongs_ to Steve and Tony. He'll never willingly submit to another dom—and certainly not to Natasha's hypothetical stranger.

"Then what? We all saw how your plan ended."

"You scared the shit out of us," Clint adds reproachfully. "I'm not calling Tony fucking Stark again!"

"I said I'm sorry, but I needed to at least try!"

He wants the bond broken as much as they do. He'd tried to break it himself five days ago when he'd hung up on his doms with such finality. The days of withdrawal and aching emptiness that followed had been torment. He'd spent every second wishing for a phone, but he'd fought tooth and nail to keep from reaching out. He'd stood firm, knowing he was doing what had to be done.

Yet his attempt had failed miserably; in just a few days, all his determination had been undone by traitorous biology.

"Well, why can't we try her way?"

"Because it's wrong! Because we don't _do_ shit like that anymore! And we'd get caught!" he declares. 

It's a hopeless case. He's repeatedly tried to dissuade Natasha, but she hasn't taken any of his objections seriously. Unsurprising, since he hasn't been able to give his real reason.

"A _museum_ of vodka, you said?" Clint asks with a smirk in his voice, glancing over at Natasha. "Do they have a gift shop?"

Bucky curses silently.

If Clint agrees with her plan, it's only a matter of time before they disregard his wishes and spring something on him. They've already overruled his choice by contacting his doms to wake him, though he'd vowed to never call again. He'd briefly considered being mad at them for it, but that emotion was eclipsed by guilt when he felt how tightly Clint clutched his shoulder and saw through the tight-lipped anger that masked Natasha's fear. They love him too much to see him in that state again; they'll betray him for his own good.

"You swore with me, Clint!" Bucky bursts out, hating himself as he takes aim at Clint's deepest wound. "You _swore_. Never again. We'd never let _anyone_ degrade us like that again. Do you really want to see me grovel for some dom who thinks that I should be _grateful_ for their fucking approval? Of all people, I'd think that _you_ would know how pathetic that is—"

"You're an _ass_ , Barnes—"

"Tasha!" Clint snaps, voice thick with hurt, and Natasha twists in her seat to glower at Bucky for causing it.

He sets his jaw, not quite able to meet her gaze as he struggles not to react to the wounded hunch of Clint's shoulders. He hadn't wanted to be so harsh—Clint has already suffered enough at his hands for a lifetime—but he can't let Natasha sway Clint to her side.

Bucky looks away, turning his gaze to the Serbian countryside flying by outside the window. The ensuing silence is broken only by the hum of the engine and the white noise of empty airwaves coming from the radios in the front seat.

If only he'd never met the Starks. Everyone would be so much better off if the bond didn't exist. He wouldn't be a burden on his companions. They'd all be able to disappear and find a new life somewhere without fearing every camera and telephone. His doms wouldn't worry about him, begging him in cracking voices to _please come home_ —

He catches himself and instead changes focus, asks himself how long it would take Tony to identify their 2007 Octavia by sound alone.

Eventually Clint sighs, shakes his head, and says, "You know I agree with you. Never again—no matter how much we want it."

"Exactly," Bucky's quick to agree. "No one can have that kind of power over us again."

"But they _already_ have power over you!" Clint insists. "You're not free like this—you're practically shackled to them. You couldn't even wake up without their voices! That's why we have to find a way around the bond."

Clint glances at him in the rearview mirror; the forgiveness in his eyes makes something in Bucky's stomach clench with guilt.

"I know giving up control is scary," Clint continues, his voice soft. "That you don't want to go under. But you have to compromise this once, otherwise you're not gonna make it. And...I'd rather see you on your knees than watch you die, Buck."

"I _can't_ ," Bucky croaks, overwhelmed by Clint's sincerity. "It's.... Look, I don't pretend to have this under control," he finally allows. He can't even take offense when Natasha snorts at that understatement. "But you finding me some random dom...." he shivers with unfeigned revulsion. "I'll _never_ consent to it."

"It's just the once," Natasha says. "Just to try. It might work, _lapushka_. There's a state clinic in Smolensk; I'll find you one of those professionals, huh? We'd just be asking her to do her job blindfolded."

All traces of anger are gone from her eyes, the pain she's had to live with for too long shining through. Despite the encouraging words, he can tell she blames herself for not finding a different solution, one that doesn't involve coerced submission to a stranger.

The clock is ticking now, and Bucky has nothing better to suggest.

But he _can_ stall.

"I just need some more time," he says, projecting as much earnestness into his tone as he can. "I'll think of something."

Natasha just looks at him, unimpressed.

"I said I'd call, didn't I? I still have time."

"It's been two days already. We're on the clock. How long before it's too late?" Clint demands.

"Tonight, okay!" Bucky snaps, resisting the urge to rub at the ache in his chest. 

He's past optimal timing now—he should have called this morning—but he's sure he can last at least another 12 hours. Tasha will see him bend to necessity, and it should be enough to buy him more time. By calling every few days he can probably put this off for another week or so before they lose patience and do something reckless. 

One week. 

It's not much time to find an alternative.

"I'll call tonight," he repeats firmly.

Just thinking about the upcoming call has his skin itching, his fingers eager to grip a phone. He fights down the surge of longing and focuses on stilling his body.

Calling whenever he wanted it badly enough is what brought things to a head. His doms had been so welcoming, so charming, and he'd been so eager to believe their declarations of affection and acceptance. Over the months of sweet promises and shared confidences, he'd actually grown careless enough to _flirt_ with them, little realizing the danger he was putting himself and his friends in.

Stupid. So stupid of him to have deluded himself— _pitied_ himself, for god's sake. He'd grown so accustomed to the wistful ache of separation that he'd forgotten what was real. No, if he can't be trusted not to surrender to a fantasy during the calls, then he can't call except when absolutely necessary.

He has to stay unpredictable, push it as long as he safely can. He just won't let himself go so far this time, not unless he wants to risk Clint and Natasha overreacting and—

 _\- "Giftsahn to Schlange, come in,"-_ an unfamiliar voice says in German.

Bucky jerks upright.

"What the fuck?" 

Natasha silences him with a wave of her hand and bends over the radio in her lap.

The _HYDRA_ radio.

Bucky eyes the passing farmlands warily. The past year has made them confident in their ability to travel undetected; they haven't heard a peep from the device in months. The fact that they're now in range of another HYDRA radio, however, means they've gotten careless.

 _\- "Go ahead, Giftsahn,"-_ a different voice replies.

 _\- "Objective achieved: We have America's beloved Captain."-_ The words, spoken with smug humor, make Bucky's blood run cold.

"Did he just say—?"

 _\- "Supreme Hydra will be pleased."-_

_\- "We are en route, carrying cargo. Delivery is time sensitive; stasis difficult to maintain. Please acknowledge."-_

_\- "Acknowledged. You are expected. Hail HYDRA!"-_

_\- "Hail HYDRA!"-_

They wait several seconds in silence to see if the transmissions will continue. The only sounds are static and the frantic thudding of Bucky's own heart. He can feel a scream building low in his gut, and he clenches his teeth against it.

"Holy shit," Clint finally breathes.

Bucky jerks into motion with a gasp.

"We have to trace that signal! We have to—I don't know, but we have--we have to _find_ him!" he blurts.

HYDRA has Captain America. HYDRA has _Steve_. It's unthinkable. It shouldn't even be possible; Captain America always seemed unbeatable. How could anyone capture him? No--Bucky knows exactly how. Steve's been assaulting HYDRA facilities and interrogating their soldiers, looking for him.

Steve had vowed to tear the bastards apart for him. The brutality of the promise had simultaneously thrilled and terrified him. That his dom loved him so much, so _implacably_....

He shakes his head to focus.

If Steve's been actively hunting HYDRA all this time, a few soldiers are bound to have escaped. Word of his interrogations would get back to HYDRA. It was only a matter of time before someone was clever enough to lay a trap—

He freezes.

_Of course._

"You know we can't track transmissions wi—" Natasha is saying, apologetic.

"No. Stop. This is a trap," he says urgently.

Natasha turns to look at him, expression inscrutable.

Eyes still on the road, Clint tilts his head doubtfully.

"They're _clever_. It's about time they wised up and tried something new." Bucky breathes deeply and counts to five, forcing himself to step down from blind panic as he exhales. This makes sense. They want him; they've been hunting him; Steve is safe. It has to be what's really going on.

"That's a risky assumption," Clint cautions.

"It's no coincidence Steve _just happened_ to be on a raid when I called that time. They were setting this up; they wanted me to know what he was doing—if he was even there in the first place!"

"Captain America's been attacking HYDRA houses for months." Natasha points out. "We've known since Gent."

Clint nods in agreement. "And they confirmed it, before you waited too long and scared the hell out of everybody. After what happened it makes sense those two would panic and get sloppy."

"No!" Bucky insists, but his breathing speeds up at the logic of their statements. "It's a trap—the _perfect_ trap. They're both smart, and we've been talking for so long--they know just how to press, they _know_ how to get me to react. And what better bait could they use than the threat of one of them in HYDRA's clutches?"

Natasha quirks an eyebrow at that, and he catches himself too late.

He's been lying to them for months—since seeing that interview—because if Clint and Nat found out how badly he longs to go to Steve and Tony, how he aches for the acceptance and security his doms represent, they'd _send_ him to them. They'd give him what he needs most, even though it meant saying goodbye.

So it's been better for Clint and Natasha to believe that he's as wary of the Starks as they are. He's hidden how badly he misses his doms between calls, the many times he turns to the empty space beside him to share a funny story with Steve to prompt his rare laugh, or to tell Tony about the outdated tech they've been reduced to just to hear his affront and predictable boast of the features of the newest Stark tech.

But the overwhelming fear is negating an entire year of careful dissimulation. Nightmare images of Steve being dragged before Mentallo— _no, he's dead, the bastard's **dead** , dammit_—and forced to kneel, of Ebersol's sadistic grin and a new collar specially designed for Captain America—

_No._

It's a trap. It _has_ to be a trap. If not—. No, it's his doms trying to con him. He hadn't dreamed them capable of such manipulation, but suddenly he's never wanted so badly for someone to disappoint him.

"Can you really take that chance?" Natasha asks pointedly.

"I..." he starts to deny it, but the words strangle in his throat.

Ultimately he can't. He _can't_. Any chance that Steve's been taken by HYDRA is too much to bear. He may risk everything by running into an ambush, but it's worth the danger. If HYDRA has Steve, then Bucky has to find him.

Adrenaline stings his tongue, and his heart trip-hammers in his ears as options unspool before him.

The radio can't trace the location of the signal, but it has a fixed radius; Steve is less than 100 kilometers away. The radio also works in both directions; he could transmit something—send a message to the transport demanding it report its location. But the other HYDRA in the area would also receive the broadcast, and Bucky'd only have a minute, max, before bringing their full focus onto himself. Even armed with Steve's location, a rescue attempt would face nearly insurmountable odds from the forewarned transport and whatever reinforcements HYDRA could scramble.

Bucky catches himself rubbing at his chest like he does when the bond has gone too long, and he jerks his hand away abruptly. He's not some weak submissive, helpless without the guidance of his doms. And he's certainly not a raw recruit, pissing himself in his first action.

He calls on years of practice and smothers the mounting panic, slowing his breathing and heart rate. He can't afford to lose his head right now.

 _If_ HYDRA has Steve. It all starts with that assumption. One he can test.

"Give me a phone." He quashes the guilty thought that he's giving into a craving for reassurance, for the comfort that their voices bring him.

Natasha offers one with suspicious speed. He grimaces and focuses on deciphering its Greek display rather than meet her eyes.

"I'll call Tony. See if he lies to me," he narrates, attempting to sound calm as he punches in the number to their private line.

He'd deliberately spoken to them harshly before, had intended for them to want nothing more to do with him. But Tony woke him when he needed it—a fact he's tried not to think about for the last couple of days. Have they forgiven him? Or does the bond make them want him despite their anger? He has no idea what kind of reception he'd receive even if this wasn't a trick or a catastrophe.

And no matter what his dom says, Bucky has to keep his guard up. He can't afford to be emotionally compromised. He steels himself for anything.

The call connects on the very first ring.

 _\- "Bucky?"-_

As always, Tony's voice brings a flood of bone-deep relief, soothing the ache that stalks every moment between calls. Bucky closes his eyes and breathes deeply, luxuriating in the way his lungs are freer, no longer paralyzed by fear. 

Tony's still there for him, just like he promised.

 _\- "Oh no— Jesus, Bucky, are you okay? Talk to me, sweetheart. Please wake up—"-_

"I'm here, Tony. I'm okay," he rushes to reassure him, short-lived relief immediately replaced by guilt that he's scared his dom so badly. He'd known he must have terrified them with that last call, that they must have been worried all this time. He should have called back right away to reassure them; he'd _wanted_ to the moment he realized Clint had hung up. They hadn't deserved his cruel words, and certainly they merited better than his ominous silence.

 _\- "Oh thank god. Thank god, you—"-_ Tony's babbling, voice shaky with relief.

The compulsion to offer comfort is nearly overwhelming, but Bucky ruthlessly stomps it down. "Where's Steve?"

But his dom doesn't seem to hear him, voice gaining urgency as he rambles on. _\- "You scared us so badly. You didn't call! You didn't call, and you needed to, didn't you? You shouldn't push it so long, Bucky, it isn't healthy, you could **hurt** yourself—" -_

"I'm fine," Bucky insists. "Where's Steve?"

_\- "What? Oh, god, you need him, too. My voice wasn't enough last time, was it?" -_

"Tony—"

\- " _She mentioned that you might need to hear both of us, that—"-_

"Tony, shut up!" he blurts, and then cringes at how harsh his voice sounds. He just _knows_ that Natasha's arching her eyebrow again, following the one-sided conversation.

Tony gasps as though slapped, and Bucky stifles an anguished moan.

_Failure. He's a **failure** , to cause his doms such pain._

He bites back the self-loathing and pushes on. "Just—just tell me where he is."

Tony exhales audibly once, twice, before he says, _\- "He's out. He's gone to capture Ebersol. God, we were so scared, we didn't know what to think; Steve had to move fast."-_

The news, presented so matter-of-factly, takes Bucky's breath away. He's suddenly back on another call, the rug pulled out from under him as Steve interrogates him about Ebersol. He'd grown complacent, believing that the calls would be enough for his doms, that their desperate affection could be held at arm's length. He'd thought to enjoy their devotion from afar, never having to face them and lose them.

But Steve's questions had forced him to face how blind he'd become. They won't settle for his terms; they're looking into his past, steadily eroding his secrets, and they won't stop until they learn everything he's done.

Bucky'd been so scared, so furious with himself when he recognized the peril he'd placed them all in by trusting these men.

It's an invaluable reminder that he can't let his emotions guide him anymore; the bond makes him vulnerable, susceptible to their charms. He can't take Tony's word for anything; he has to have proof.

Tony's still talking when Bucky tunes back in, _\- "—pick up the phone when he can. Just stay on the line, please, give him another couple minutes." -_ His tone changes briefly, as though he's speaking to someone else, _\- "Get Steve now. Override his phone; I want audio, I don't care who he's with._

_\- "Bucky, we need to talk about the bond. We know it's not stable; we've been consulting with an expert—" -_

"We're not talking about anything until I know where he is." Bucky forces steel into his voice, determined not to let on that he's worried.

 _\- "What is it? What's wrong? Are you okay?" -_ Tony's concern sounds sincere, but Bucky pictures Tony's fingers dancing on a keyboard. He may already be triangulating their location.

He shivers and fights down the instinct to cut and run. Even though it's a risk, he has to see this through and make sure Steve's safe.

 _\- "Captain Stark's phone has been disconnected, sir," -_ a man reports dispassionately in a British accent.

The unfamiliar voice is like a splash of cold water. Is someone else on the line? In the room with Tony? Who else has Tony told about him? He never realized how he'd taken privacy for granted on all their calls. The intimacy in their voices had fooled him so easily. How many others were audience to their conversations?

He pulls the phone away to check the time—almost two minutes in already. If Tony's stalling him....

He raises the mobile back to his ear to Tony incredulously demanding _\- "Where's the Quinjet? And try the tracker in his shield." -_

_\- "Stark One is still located in Rzeszow and has not been accessed in the last seven hours." -_

"He was in Rzeszow," Bucky relays quietly.

Natasha nods. The city is located in southern Poland; close enough to be in driving distance of a nighttime attack. It's either a clue to Steve's location or the next step in the trick.

The unknown man continues, _\- "The shield tracker is not currently available. I've taken the liberty of searching for the signal from Captain Stark's personal tracker; it is also unavailable." -_

 _\- "What the hell? Get me Fury on the line. Highest priority._

_\- "Bucky, please, are you in pain? What are your symptoms? I'm sorry he's not here right now, maybe—maybe if I play a recording of his voice?" -_

Bucky weighs the benefits of speeding up this farce against the risk of saying too much. If this is a trap, he'll be giving away their location to within 100 kilometers of whatever radio the Starks are using to broadcast the false signal. But if it's not....

"We intercepted a HYDRA transmission," he finally states. "They claimed they were transporting Captain America."

Tony scoffs. _\- "Steve's fine. He's a pro at these assaults. He probably got a little distracted, that's all." -_

Bucky blinks. Of all possible reactions, he hadn't expected to have to convince Tony that Steve could be in danger. Is it possible this is real and Tony just doesn't know about it? He eyes the phone warily. Playing dumb could be an excellent stall tactic on Tony's part.

"You said he was moving fast. Probably acting on a tip he got from some HYDRA prisoner, right? It never occurred to either of you that it could be a set up?"

 _\- "Director Fury is on the other line," -_ the stranger reports.

_\- "Look, just...just stay quiet for a minute, Bucky._

_\- "Fury, you one-eyed bastard!" -_ Tony's voice changes dramatically, becoming forceful, more arrogant than he's ever been with Bucky, and some traitorous part of him thrills to learn this new facet of his dom. _\- "Where the hell's my husband?" -_

 _\- "We're determining that, Stark," -_ a deep voice announces brusquely. Bucky wonders if this is really the Director of SHIELD or an actor playing a part for the Starks' increasingly elaborate ruse.

_\- "He was with your people. Don't you have eyes on the ground?" -_

_\- "My cleanup crew never checked in. We've just received updates from the local team sent to investigate; they've found bodies. A few hostiles, two of mine. No sign of the Captain or the rest of my agents. It looks like it was a trap." -_

_\- "Oh, does it **look** like a trap? I want to know what you're doing about it!" -_

_\- "We've got it covered. I'll let you know when you can be of assistance." -_

_\- "You'll let me know? You weren't even going to tell me he was missing! Do I have to do everything myself?" -_ Then in another aside, _\- "Jarvis, don't you dare try to stop me this time—" -_

_\- "Stay put, Stark. I don't need you flying off the handle before we have any information." -_

_\- "Just fucking find him!" -_ Tony shouts.

Strange clanging noises immediately follow his outburst. Bucky wonders if he's throwing equipment.

Tony takes a shaky breath, and then says, voice high and anxious, _\- "Bucky? Are you still there?" -_

"I'm here."

_\- "And you're sure you're okay? I'm sorry Steve's not—ah—available right now...." -_

A high-pitched whine becomes audible and quickly increases in volume. Bucky's startled to recognize the sound: Iron Man is on the move. Has he stayed on the line too long, leading his doms right to him? Or is this yet one more proof that the situation is real? 

He's lost control of this whole conversation.

_\- "Sir, I've been able to locate Captain Stark's tracker. The signal is muffled and intermittent, but eight seconds ago it was traveling south on the M5 approaching Szeged, Hungary." -_

Bucky's blood freezes in his veins, and this time he really can't breathe. If this is real— _oh, Christ, don't let this be real_. Because if HYDRA actually has Captain America, and if they get him to the base, then this is so much worse than Ebersol's cruelty, worse than wires in Steve's neck, forcing him to do the man's terrible bidding. Bucky can't _breathe_. 

_Steve_. He can't—

He must make some kind of noise, because Natasha turns in her seat, wide-eyed and expectant, and Tony's voice is tense in a whole new way when he demands, _\- "What is it?" -_

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and tries—fails—tries again to pull himself together. He reminds himself that it could _still_ all be a lie. _Please let it be a lie._ Steve is safe at home, watching Tony manipulate him expertly. He's not smiling at the deed; he's resolute, grimly pleased as Bucky gives up the clues to their location.

He forces a deep breath into his reluctant lungs.

In a careful voice, he says, "You’re not fucking with me, are you, Tony? Because if this is a trap, I swear to God...."

_\- "Of course it was a trap! A goddamn HYDRA trap—and Steve ran right into it! The Star-Spangled Man with no stupid fucking plan!" -_

He grinds the edge of the phone against his temple in frustration. He needs _proof_. Tony sounds worried, but not nearly as panicked as he should. On the other hand, maybe he doesn't know....

"Szeged is near the western border of Latveria," he informs Tony.

In the front seat, Natasha hisses in alarm, and Clint repeats, "Fuck, Szeged?"

_\- "What does Dr. Doom have to do with—" -_

"Baron Zemo’s base is outside Doomstadt."

Tony is silent for a moment, then blurts, _\- "No. No no no no, Zemo will **kill** him." -_ His voice breaks, and they've only spoken a dozen times by this point but—dammit—Bucky _knows_ his voice.

Bucky finally believes; Steve's really in danger. Another wave of terror crashes over him. Zemo's hated Captain America for decades; he's long since moved past any need to play with his prey before killing it. He'll meet the HYDRA transport with his sword in hand and dispatch Steve before he can raise a hand to defend himself. The radio had said something about stasis; god, he might never even see it coming—

_\- "Jarvis, I need max power **5 minutes ago**. Can you give me 125 percent?" -_

_\- "The reactor cannot sustain 125 percent for a flight of this duration. 118 percent is the maximum possible." -_

_\- "Then give me 118 and see what systems you can shut down to divert additional power to the thrusters." -_

The background whine rises in pitch, and Bucky is torn between swelling hope and paralyzing fear. Tony will save Steve. Of course he will; nothing can stop Iron Man—nothing except an anti-tank round in the back, and Bucky flinches away from that memory. Tony's on his way; Steve will be fine. 

Right?

"How fast can you get there?" he asks tensely. "You have to stop them before they reach the base."

But Tony's shouting questions and instructions, something about climate control and wind resistance, and Bucky has to repeat himself several times to get an answer.

"Tony! How fast can you get there?"

 _\- "Current time to intercept is 109 minutes," -_ the stranger finally reports, and it occurs to Bucky that it must be a computer. There's no time to digest that revelation, however, because Bucky's stomach has dropped to his feet.

"You won't make it," Bucky says, and his voice sounds strange, distant even to his own ears. The base is just over 100 kilometers from Szeged, and HYDRA will be moving fast. Tony might come close, but he just won't get there in time.

He's abruptly thrown against the door of the car as Clint—the best tactical driver Bucky's ever seen—whips the Octavia through a tight 180-degree turn. He can barely hear Tony's protestations that he'll make it, that he'll get there _somehow_ , over the roar of the car engine redlining and Natasha cursing loudly in Russian.

"East," he tells Clint, who nods grimly.

Bucky closes his eyes and pulls himself together. There's no time for emotions; fear will only make him powerless. Yes, Steve is in danger, but now they know where he is. They know exactly where he is, they know where he will be. 

Bucky _will_ get there in time.

He pictures the map they'd poured over during the night. "Clint, make for that small border crossing at Nakovo. You remember it?"

Tony sucks in a sharp breath.

_\- "No! No, Bucky, don't you **dare** —" -_

"I can intercept in 80...maybe 70 minutes," he corrects after a glance at the speedometer.

_\- "Dammit, you don't have to do this! I'll get there. I don't want you anywhere near that base!" -_

_\- "Sir, I'm afraid Sergeant Barnes is correct. At maximum velocity you cannot intercept Captain Stark's transport before it reaches Doomstadt." -_

_\- "Jesus, fuck. **Fuck.** " -_ After that outburst, Tony goes quiet for a long moment, and the harsh pants of his breathing fill Bucky's ear.

Bucky tucks the phone between his shoulder and cheek and drags a heavy duffle bag up onto his lap. He pulls the zipper, and gunmetal winks ominously up at him, reminiscent of countless other missions he wouldn't have chosen.

Finally he hears Tony take a slower—if shaky—breath.

_\- "Baby, you know I wouldn’t ask this. You know I just want to keep you safe. You do know that, don’t you?" -_

Tony's said those words countless times before, but for once Bucky doesn't doubt their sincerity.

"It’s Steve," is all he manages, aware his voice is rough with emotion. It's Steve, whose greatest honor was looking after a submissive in need. Steve, who warmed the winter chill in Bucky's bones by rhapsodizing about the layers of blankets on his bed in Stark Tower. Steve, the patient voice on the other end of the line that makes his heart overflow.

And god, he loves them _both_. His private bright spot after years of pain. An ideal he was foolish to aspire to, but they made him feel so cherished, so beloved in return. He loves them helplessly, for all that he can never have them. They deserve so much better.

He clears his throat and starts wrestling pieces of Clint's rifle from the bag with his good arm.

 _\- "Oh you—you really do," -_ Tony breathes. _\- "Oh thank God." -_

Bucky knows exactly what he's just given away—is pretty sure Natasha heard it, too—but in this moment his biggest regret is that he's never said the words to his doms.

"Tony, I'm sorry, I—"

He finds the sniper scope, and his teeth snap shut. He'd used this very scope to observe the destruction of the palace, had borrowed it from Clint to ensure all eight charges blew successfully. Memories of the explosions assault him, flames roaring up over and over again before his eyes, multiplied exponentially by the televised footage that had looped in Mentallo's workshop and the agonizing coverage of mourners at the memorial just a few days ago.

Bucky did that.

How _dare_ he have pitied himself? How dare he ever forget what he is? To presume to flirt with—let alone desire—such heroes? He's not worth the dust on their shoes. A blistering hangover and the futility of whiskey on a day like _that_ , vicious words into a phone as he'd tried to make them _see_. They should have let him end things then.

He screws the scope into position, thankful he's never said those words.

 _\- "Just—just intercept the vehicle. Stay away from that base. Promise me you’ll stay away from the base! **Please** , Bucky," -_ Tony is saying, openly begging.

"It’s Steve," Bucky repeats quietly, closing his eyes against the familiar, crushing weight that settles onto his shoulders. He'll do anything for the right leverage—commit any atrocity, undertake any suicidal mission, torture his dearest friend—hadn't the last bitter years proved that?

He hadn't thought he'd fight for anyone but Clint and Natasha ever again. But he can no longer deny that he would do the same to protect his doms. Die for them. Kill for them. 

_Anything_.

Mentallo would have abused him mercilessly for giving his heart away again, would have found ways to twist it back into Bucky's own breast like a knife. The bastard's dead, but there's a hideous irony in the fact that HYDRA is still controlling Bucky's actions in the same way.

 _\- "It’s **both** of you!" -_ Tony cries, distraught. _\- "I can’t—." -_

"I _can_. It's my call." He traces the rifle trigger with shaking fingers.

They'd vowed, once they got free, not to kill. He'd told himself he was different now, that freedom had changed him, made him better, but it seems he's still just a killer at heart.

Tony is silent for a little while longer, and when he speaks, his voice is still hoarse with emotion.

_\- "Okay, sweetheart. Okay. I, uh, I've got satellite images of the transports. I’m seeing two trailer trucks—white, no markings—now moving east on the M43. Fuck, they're really headed for Latveria.... Jarvis, narrow down the signal—find out which truck they're in." -_

"The VIP prisoner will be in the rear vehicle," Bucky says, voice flat. "The missing agents will be in the other to ensure his good behavior."

There's a telling pause where Tony very obviously does _not_ ask how his submissive knows these tactics.

Bucky tries to ignore the hurt. He'd always known they'd find out about him eventually, but he'd thought it would be his _past_ that drove them away. He'd never dreamed he'd have to _show_ them.

He sets the phone on the seat beside him and puts it on speakerphone so he can assemble the rest of the rifle. "We need all the details you can give us. How fast are the trucks moving? Are there any leading or trailing vehicles?"

As Tony describes the HYDRA convoy, Bucky attempts to process the information impassively, but with Steve's life on the line, it's all but impossible to sink into the objective role of strategist. Visions of failure barrage him: Blood dripping from Zemo's sword. Steve's knees hitting asphalt. A red stain spreading in a white star....

He shakes his head and reminds himself that this is no different than any of Mentallo's missions. It's just as rife with danger and, like all of those assignments, failure carries disastrous consequences.

When he'd planned missions for the Howling Commandos, he'd frequently gotten carried away, swept up in glorious visions of achieving some noble objective, the satisfaction of stopping evil doers. Dugan had had to slow him down and make him justify every step, realize every corner he'd cut in his excitement.

Under Mentallo's control, however, Bucky had needed to divorce himself from the atrocities he planned. He'd drowned out guilt and fear with layer upon layer of details, tactics, and contingency plans. Over time the danger and reprehensibility of the missions had faded as he focused determinedly on strategy. The objectivity he'd attained had made him brilliant; they'd pulled off ludicrously difficult assignments that he'd never have dreamed possible with the Commandos, let alone a team of three.

"Okay," he says slowly, once he's walled his emotions away and found his equilibrium. "We'll be crossing at Nakovo; talk to me about the Latverian manpower and any vehicles parked nearby."

Tony appears to be reaching his own version of objectivity; his voice grows steadier, words coming quicker and with more confidence. He's able to anticipate a surprising number of Bucky's questions as they move on to predicting an intercept point, and Bucky wonders if he supports Steve and the other Avengers this way.

"What sort of cover am I looking at in that area?" Clint cuts in.

_\- "Well, if it isn't Clint Barton! You really should call more, you know, shoot the shit, chew the fat, all those good things. It was hard to appreciate your dulcet tones over the sound of you **hanging up on me** —" -_

"Don't fucking patronize me, _dominant_ ," Clint snaps, scowling.

Bucky tenses, wondering if the resentment of doms that he'd done everything he could to encourage would derail this mission unexpectedly.

Tony's voice loses its momentary humor when he replies, almost courteously, _\- "My apologies, Barton. I had the misfortune of meeting your arrows last year, and I'm in no hurry to be on the receiving end again." -_

Bucky experiences a wave of bone-deep horror for the things they had done—that _he_ had done—in repelling the Avengers' assault on Mentallo's compound. He remembers screaming like an animal and targeting Iron Man's back through the scope of the Steyr, pressing his pistol to Iron Man's eye socket and squeezing the trigger—

_\- "As I said, the region is almost painfully flat, farmland as far as the satellite can see—I'm talking Iowa cornfield flat, which—hey—guess what they've been planting. There are a few small copses of trees within 50 or so yards of the road that should provide some cover." -_

Natasha twists to catch his eyes. "Are you going to want him on comms?" Her softly spoken question is too carefully neutral.

"I think...yeah. Yeah, I'm going to need him," he ignores the burn of shame at the admission; he'd surrendered his pride years ago. He hands her the phone. "And give him the HYDRA frequencies, too. Tony, I'm gonna need you to cut communication between the trucks and the base when we're closer."

While she relays the details that will allow Stark to patch into their personal comms system, Bucky shuts his eyes once more and turns the mission parameters over and around in his mind.

Two trailer trucks. A flat, isolated road. Full sunlight. Steve—no, the VIP hostage. Hostages in _both_ vehicles. No specialized gear.

If this were one of Mentallo's missions, he'd run the front vehicle off the road; it's easy to force a crash at a tight turn, and the confusion buys them valuable seconds to break into the rear truck and assassinate their target. But for a rescue mission—there's no way they'd be able to reach both sets of prisoners in time.

And if they simply disabled both vehicles and held them long enough for Iron Man to arrive, the SHIELD agents would be executed once HYDRA realized help wasn't coming from the base. Hell, some overzealous officer might decide to terminate Captain America himself rather than risk losing HYDRA's prize.

No, they can't risk tipping off HYDRA that anything's amiss until they can get between the soldiers and their prisoners. That means close-quarters fighting in the vehicles—but no gear with which to board them.

There has to be a way to stop the trucks without raising any alarm. He can picture the convoy stopped on the road, white sides blinding in the late-spring sun. Motionless. Waiting. But waiting for what?

Natasha reading off the encryption key for the HYDRA radio gives him the last piece of the puzzle, and the plan snaps into view, all the elements falling into place like dominos. He takes another minute to figure out the contingencies and account for them before explaining it to the others.

 _\- "It's too dangerous," -_ Tony protests when he's heard the plan. _\- "I don't want you in that close. Surely Barton could—" -_

Clint stiffens, clearly interpreting Tony's worry as a lack of respect for his submissive. "He's the better actor; I'm the better shot. We stick to our strengths when we have to adlib." When Tony continues to protest, Clint scowls and insists, "You don't know what we're capable of."

"I've got this, Tony. You have to trust me." Bucky says, all too aware of the irony of the request. If there's one thing Tony can trust him with, it's bloodshed; he's had years of practice.

Tony breaks the uneasy silence with a rushed declaration.

_\- "Alright. Alright, I trust you. But...you have to know, sweetheart—you have to know how much we love you. You mean the world to us, and if anything happens, Steve would—we **both** want you to know that you've been everything we could wish for. And that the last few years were not your fault. We know you blame yourself, and we understand, but **we don't blame you**. Not for **anything**." -_

The unexpected words cut through Bucky's defenses to slice him wide open. It's everything he's never let himself believe, everything he knows better than to believe, but he's trusting Tony, too, right now, and the promise in his voice is impossible to ignore.

Hope flares in his chest, burning like wildfire and obliterating all his objections. They love him. They forgive him. They still want him despite everything he's done—

Just as suddenly, the fire burns out. One objection still remains, immutable and undeniable: He's not what they think he is. Right now they could promise to forgive and forget, but they still believe he was merely a victim.

James Barnes should have died rather than submit to Mentallo—surely there had been a point when he could have found a way, before the villain had found the right pressure point. Instead, for two years he repeatedly chose the lives of two killers over the hundreds of innocents whose deaths he orchestrated. He can never be forgiven for surrendering with open eyes, for willingly colluding with the enemy; he's as monstrous as any HYDRA mastermind.

He'd failed his doms before he ever met them, and Tony's tender words can't change the past.

His heart tearing in half all over again, Bucky groans and chokes out, "I can’t, Tony. Please don't--I have to—"

There's a _crack_ from the front seat as Natasha slaps the magazine back into a pistol. " _Enough_ , Stark. He needs to concentrate if we're going to save your husband. We're going offline. We'll call and confirm the intercept point when we're across the border. But contact us immediately if those trucks leave the highway."

She hangs up before Tony can say another word.

"Finally!" Clint says. "You'd think he was paid by the hour."

"Stark always liked to hear himself talk," she agrees. "Hand me a suppressor?"

Bucky flinches and uses the excuse to look down at the bag in his lap. He's bound to Steve by affection and the bond; this rescue is an obligation as irresistible as any order Mentallo ever gave. But Clint and Natasha are under no such compulsion—they don't need any more blood on their hands.

"I didn't—" he swallows, "I haven't actually asked you to help. You know you don't have to—"

Clint growls. "I will climb back there and punch you myself if you don't shut your face. We're finally gonna give HYDRA a taste of their own. You think I'd miss this?"

Tasha's eyes are burning with excitement, and Bucky's never seen that set to Clint's shoulders before. They're so achingly brave, so eager to help him in the only ways they know how, determined to right a wrong for once, instead of causing one.

He swells with pride. For all his misgivings, he wouldn't take this moment, this choice away from them for anything.

"Tony's right, though," he says, obliged to give at least a token warning. "It's dangerous."

The edge of Tasha's smile is as sharp as her knives.

"So are we."


	8. Chapter 8

There are things—too many things—that Bucky doesn't like to remember. If he doesn't think about them, he can pretend he's still the same man he used to be. 

But sense memory is tricky and sometimes unearths something unexpected. As he stares down the empty, two-lane road waiting for the HYDRA convoy to come into view, he's abruptly reminded of empty train tracks seen through lashes squinted tight against whistling wind and icy flakes.

He shakes his head to clear it. While the breathless anticipation of action may be the same, the surrounding cornfields are the furthest thing from a snowy mountain pass. And the righteous pride he'd felt in his cause then bears no resemblance to the nausea that churns in his gut as he fidgets with the fastenings of the stolen uniform.

The kid he'd been then didn't know anything about regrets, about how far a man could be pushed before he broke. Safe in the camaraderie of his unit, under the tough but fair hand of Sergeant Major Dugan, he'd thought he knew his own limits. But he'd had no idea. He'd never known the desperate need to protect what he loved.

It's an equation that Bucky doesn't like to examine too closely. He'd lived it long enough, survived the neverending search to see what, if anything, could outweigh the safety of his loved ones. Nothing ever has, and in the wake of that lesson, morals and honor became niceties he could rarely afford.

Natasha and Clint had taken the Latverian border outpost handily but had spared the soldiers' lives, limiting themselves to blunt-force trauma. The Latverian guards were innocent of the current conflict, merely a means to an end. But Bucky knows that if he hadn't had the luxury of a couple extra minutes, or if an unexpected turn of events had made shooting necessary, he'd have shot to kill.

He steels himself for the task ahead with the same ruthlessness, dropping himself into that unflinching mindset by remembering the things he's tried so hard to forget. The gurgling wheeze of a slit trachea. The petrol stench of a car bomb. The heat of scalding water on his back as he shook in Natasha's arms. He's no better than any of those moments, not if he'd reenact them all to protect Steve or the others. In the end, Mentallo had taught him that he was a weapon. For Steve, he can be that again.

Bucky plucks despairingly at another button. 

_\- "Contact," -_ Clint announces over comms, signaling the arrival of the convoy.

Bucky takes a deep breath. "Ready."

Natasha has been silent behind the wheel of the humvee, leaving him to his thoughts. Her hand on his knee now stops him as he reaches for the passenger door, and he looks back at her.

"It's just like any other day," she says, keeping her eyes on the horizon, where the top of the first truck is just coming into view. "We get the job done and we survive."

"We get the job done," he agrees, opening the door and stepping down from the vehicle. Failure isn't an option. It never has been.

They slam the doors and take up positions on either side of their makeshift roadblock, the Latverian crest on the vehicle's hood on full display. Bucky adjusts the fall of his useless arm at his side and checks the position of his pistols and knife in the stolen uniform one last time. Fifteen rounds in each clip makes thirty, plus Natasha's own thirty and plethora of knives, and Clint's twenty sniper rounds and backup pistols. Even if the trucks are full of guards, it'll be enough. 

It has to be enough. 

_\- "You two look adorable in green. Like deadly little peas in a pod." -_

Natasha sighs loudly at Clint's chatter but doesn't discourage him. 

Bucky's acknowledging smile is more of a grimace. If the words hit a little closer to home than he can handle right now…well, he'd better get used to being called a killer. He's going to re-earn the epithet several times over in the next few minutes.

Sunlight glints off the windshield of the front truck as it rolls into view, and he narrows his eyes to gauge the distance. Are the trucks slowing? Or are they about to barrel through the Latverian Army humvee parked in the middle of the road?

Once they'd crossed the border, Tony had scrambled contact between the convoy and Baron Zemo's base. Clint had used the radio to make contact with the trucks, claiming to be the base, and notified the convoy of a bureaucratic hiccup. After years under the thumb of HYDRA officers, his impersonation of imperious command was dead on. The officer he'd shouted at should have no reason to suspect the changed orders. 

But there's always a chance that an enemy might think for himself. And Steve's life depends on the man blindly obeying a supposed superior officer. 

_\- "Come on, come on...yes!" -_ Clint breathes as the brakes begin to squeal. _\- "Okay, a little closer...just a little more...bingo!" -_

The first trailer truck shudders to a stop a few dozen yards away, and Bucky emphatically Does Not Think about Steve being so close.

A man swings down from the passenger seat of the front truck, pausing to settle his cap on his head and straighten his jacket before approaching.

Bucky hasn't laid eyes on a HYDRA uniform in almost a year, and the sight of the familiar black and silver stirs something long dormant in his blood.

 _Years_ he'd spent under their control, subject to their casual abuses and dehumanizing punishments, backed into one loaded choice after the next and ordered to commit countless vile crimes. Years he'd spent wrestling his helpless anger, keeping it contained lest he call down more punishment upon them all.

"Clint, stay cool," Natasha snaps, and Bucky blinks, startled out of his fugue. His hand aches from clenching. "No flying off the handle."

Clint's breathing is audible over the comms, fast and harsh like he's barely holding himself back. Bucky shudders. If he has two years of anger to deal with, he can't imagine how HYDRA's presence is affecting Clint, who has half a decade of their tyranny to avenge.

Clint's voice is strained when he replies, _\- "I'm cool. I'm Mr. Freeze. But somebody's killing this bastard today, you hear me?" -_

Trying to step outside his anger, Bucky looks the officer up and down as he swaggers toward them. Average height, broad shoulders, silver braid on the right epaulette marking him a lieutenant, and a perfectly cocked hat with a polished brim above an unpleasantly wide mouth. He doesn't recognize the man at all, but his trigger finger itches.

"You know this goon?" he murmurs, wondering if this is an old acquaintance of Clint's, if there's a personal wrong Bucky can right for him.

 _\- "Don't have to know him. Fucking scum, all of them." -_ There's the unmistakable sound of spitting.

"Amen."

The officer stops several feet from them, and they watch him with impassive faces. It's a trick Natasha had taught them all: give a mark time to show his hand. Bucky stares the man down and ignores the way his body tenses in anticipation of an order to kneel. Hyper aware of the pistol in his thigh holster, he'd almost like to see the officer dare.

After another moment of silence, the lieutenant taps his foot and says in German, "So Doom has a problem with HYDRA going about their business?"

Bucky inwardly relaxes at this, but he straightens his spine as though offended by the man's rudeness. 

He keeps his tone professional when he explains in the same language, "Lord Doom takes his country's security seriously. Super-powered beings are not permitted within our borders unless they've been properly secured. HYDRA knows this."

"This is a waste of time. Of course he's secure."

"You failed to declare your dangerous cargo when you crossed our border," he accuses in his best affronted bureaucrat.

"My mission is time-critical—"

"This was a violation of our glorious leader's arrangement with your master," he continues, relishing the way the HYDRA officer is losing his temper. "Such a breach of trust could destroy the friendship that's been so beneficial to HYDRA."

The lieutenant flinches at that but maintains his air of urgency. "Look, no harm was meant, but I need to move my cargo _now_."

Bucky keeps his face still despite the surge of anger he feels at this man's disrespectful reference to Steve. "Latverian law clearly requires that mutants and other super-powered beings be secured—"

"He's secure! I assure you, I didn't violate your laws, and if you'll just let me complete my mission—"

"You're in an awful hurry to deliver your cargo," Natasha observes, pushing her way into the man's space. He backs up a step. "Could it be he's not as secure as you claim?"

"What? No! We've taken the proper precautions."

" _We_ will be the judge of that," Bucky states, advancing as well.

The lieutenant holds his ground, but his protest is weak: "I'm sure that's not necessary...." 

"Your superiors assured us you would be cooperative. If you do not show us your cargo now, it will never reach your base, and you'll be personally responsible for ending our leaders' cordial relationship," she snaps, crossing her arms.

"Fine!" The lieutenant looks away, mouth twisting angrily, but he has already pulled himself together when he looks back at them a moment later. His tone is crisp as he concedes, "Very well. I'll show you the Captain, and you'll see for yourselves that he's well secured. Let's get this over with."

Bucky gestures for him to lead the way, catching the tight, tense set of Natasha's jaw as they follow him.

 _\- "Damn right, asshole," -_ Clint mutters.

Bucky's trigger finger twitches as he watches the HYDRA officer's unprotected back. He distracts himself from the temptation by wondering whether Tony could follow their rapid-fire German or if his computer was translating for him. The thought sours quickly. What must Tony think of his capacity for deception? And what will he think of everything Bucky's about to do?

The feeling of being observed pulls him back to the present, and Bucky looks up, accidentally making eye contact with the driver of the first truck as they pass the man's cab. The soldier watches them suspiciously, alert despite having driven through the night.

"Driver?" he murmurs, looking away.

 _\- "Haven't got the shot from here," -_ Clint reports. He's concealed in a copse of trees a few dozen yards back from the road on the passenger side of the HYDRA vehicles. Bucky'd placed him to control the space between the trucks, but the front cab is inaccessible from there.

Bucky mentally reserves at least four rounds to pick the driver off from his protected position later.

The trucks are stopped a short distance apart, leaving a space of approximately seven meters from the back bumper of one to the front grill of the other. When the lieutenant unexpectedly walks between the trucks, Bucky has a moment of alarm. All his experience tells him that Steve is in the rear truck. This entire rescue is predicated on that assumption. What if he's wrong, and Steve is in the front vehicle? What if their ruse was unsuccessful after all, and they're being led into an ambush?

They follow the officer into the space, and Bucky suppresses a shiver as he feels the gazes of the driver and guard in the rear cab on his back. He resists the urge to cover his neck, where the short queue Natasha had tied for him only partially conceals the wires of his old control collar. He tries not to think about the poor fit of his stolen uniform or the dead weight of his bionic arm, which has so far gone unnoticed.

Their lieutenant steps up to the rear door of the first truck and swings open the cam lock at the base, popping it open several inches. Several sets of gloved hands immediately appear under the edge. The roller door slides up to reveal four HYDRA soldiers, dressed all in black and pointing weapons at Bucky and Natasha.

She doesn't so much as twitch, and Bucky follows her example, standing his ground and holding himself completely still. 

After a breathless moment the guards step aside, revealing five men and women in SHIELD uniforms seated on the floor against one long wall. 

The SHIELD agents are alert, squinting at the open door. Their arms are behind them, likely bound in place, and Bucky notes two of them surreptitiously testing their restraints. He feels a sick jolt of recognition. They're prisoners bound for a HYDRA base. Who's to say how many of them were to be killed? Or ransomed back to SHIELD? Or collared and kept as slaves, used as leverage against each other or against Steve?

"What is this?" he demands hoarsely, voice choked with barely suppressed rage.

The officer's smile reveals a wide expanse of teeth. "You asked to see our security measures."

He's too angry to be relieved, but he does manage to temper his voice. "We weren't told you had additional prisoners!" he huffs, puffing up his chest with false indignation. "I presume you captured these alongside Captain America?"

"Of course. As you can see, they make an excellent insurance policy."

"But this means we must inspect these prisoners, as well!" He's careful to sound dismayed, as would be expected of a bureaucrat suddenly faced with a much larger task. 

"I hardly see the—"

Natasha steps in, eyes flashing with unfeigned anger. "Any one of these might be another superhero in disguise. You may have been tricked into bringing mutants into Latveria under the auspices of the goodwill that our lord has extended to your leader. This could spell disaster for our country."

"You're overreacting," he says sharply, no longer pleased.

"You brought these people across our border in bad faith, HYDRA. If your baron wishes to continue to enjoy Lord Doom's hospitality, you _will_ respect his security precautions," Bucky intones, putting the full weight of the Latverian government behind the threat.

The lieutenant's eyes narrow in displeasure, and Bucky can see him weighing his options, but the outcome is already guaranteed. Capturing Captain America should make his career, but causing a rift between Zemo and Doom, especially over a bit of red tape, would end it. The man values his future prospects too much to risk them. 

He relents with a growl. "Fine. Go ahead and inspect them." At his gesture, one of the soldiers in the trailer holds out a flashlight.

"You're joking," Bucky says flatly.

"Get them out of the truck," Natasha orders. "You captured them in the dark, and you've transported them the same way. Sunlight will reveal their true identities."

The officer stares at them incredulously for a moment before spinning on his heel and stalking a few feet away, muttering under his breath.

 _\- "I could watch this shit all day," -_ Clint whispers, and Natasha coughs to cover a laugh.

He turns back to them with a strained smile. "Very well. Guards, bring out the prisoners."

Two of the guards holster their weapons and crouch down beside the closest SHIELD agent. One reaches for chains at the woman's feet while the other holds the flashlight, and there's a lengthy clatter of keys. The agents are well secured, Bucky realizes with pleasure, feet and hands attached to the trailer itself, and chains connecting their cuffed hands to their neighbors'.

All told, it takes more than a minute to get the woman to her feet with her arms still bound behind her. But because of the short length of chain that runs from her hands to those of the next agent in line, she can't be moved until all the other prisoners have been similarly freed.

The guards move to start on the second prisoner's leg shackles.

The lieutenant's grimace slips into a frown as the process drags on. "This will take forever," he says testily.

"We'll wait," Natasha says, crossing her arms.

"Well, I won't." He checks his watch. "Come, I'll show you the real superhero now. These nobodies will be ready for your inspection after." 

He stalks away without waiting for their acknowledgement, and Bucky's satisfaction is usurped by the electrifying realization that he's about to see Steve. He focuses on his breathing and blindly follows Natasha just as the second SHIELD agent is being dragged to his feet inside the trailer.

They hear the back door of the second truck open as they approach, and they find only three armed guards waiting for them inside. There's movement in the shadows at the forward end of the trailer, though, and Bucky's heart leaps. He surreptitiously cranes his head for a better view.

"You'll be fully satisfied with my security measures," the officer assures them, climbing up into the truck and gesturing for them to follow.

"I assume you have something better than chains," Natasha says, effortlessly springing up behind him.

"Indeed, we've been using a special cocktail of sedatives to keep Captain America unconscious, though I understand the dosage has been increasing to combat the super-soldier serum."

"Impressive to have achieved stasis at all," she says, admiring now as she takes a few steps deeper into the trailer. 

All eyes follow her progress, and Bucky is able to mount the truck without drawing attention to the arm swinging dead at his side.

"How often are you dosing him now?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady as he joins them. He's now mere feet from Steve, and his heart is galloping in anticipation and fear.

"For that, you'll have to consult the doctor." The lieutenant gestures to the far end of the trailer, where a man is silhouetted before a wall of bars.

The doctor's shoulders lack the distinct bulges of Ebersol's oversized bionics, confirming Bucky's suspicion that Ebersol had been nowhere near the trap laid for Captain America. But a chill runs up Bucky's spine nonetheless, making his wires itch. He's all too familiar with the work of HYDRA's so-called 'doctors', and the knowledge that one of them has had his hands on Steve is sickening.

Bucky makes his way past the officer and guards cautiously. A shallow cell stands against the front wall of the trailer, creating a space just big enough for a narrow cot. Medical monitoring equipment is clustered outside of the cage, its displays glowing faintly, and sickly yellow lamplight illuminates wires that snake down from the machines, between the thick bars, and up to the blue-clad figure in the cage.

The doctor nods at Bucky and steps aside, revealing Steve's unconscious body.

Bucky's vision goes red.

His dom is bloody and still. Dried blood trails over the near side of his face and is matted in his hair. His uniform is ruined, the white star stained and scorched and the left sleeve missing, cut cleanly at the shoulder. His bare arm is caked with blood from an already scabbed wound and crowded with electrodes. Thick chains wrap around every limb and across his torso, restraining him to the narrow cot, and his exposed arm is bound to the bars of the cell, locked in place for the thick IV tube that's penetrating his forearm.

"He's on a continuous feed," the doctor is saying, waving to the IV bag, where a milky liquid drips steadily into the tubing. "I've had to up the dosage every few hours. This display alerts me when he begins to regain consciousness," he gestures to his machines, but Bucky can barely hear him over the roar of possessive outrage that sweeps through him.

Steve is battered, bound, covered in blood, and these HYDRA bastards are to blame. How _dare_ they touch this man?

"You did this," he grates out, hardly aware what he's saying. Vengeance is singing in his veins, and he reaches slowly for the knife at his belt. Blood deserves blood, and when he slices this butcher's throat, the crimson spray will coat his infernal machines.

"Oh, indeed. This is cutting-edge science, entirely my own concoction. I'm quite pleased, if I say so myself."

 _\- "Stark!" -_ Natasha hisses in his ear, and then Tony is there.

_\- "I don't know what you're seeing, Bucky, but I know it's hard. I know; I've been there. But listen to me, you've got to concentrate. There's a plan, remember? Remember your plan. You know what comes next. I'm counting on you. **Steve's** counting on you." -_

His dom's voice is faint compared to the howling bloodlust, but, combined with the disconcerting use of English, it's enough to bring him back from the edge. Bucky reluctantly drops his hand from the knife hilt. He can't risk too much noise—not yet. Not while there are still guards outside who might hear and come running. No, he can wait long enough to get Steve free, and then he'll rip the tongue from this monster's smirking mouth and laugh while he screams and chokes. 

_\- "You can do this, sweetheart." -_ Tony's voice is easier to hear now, and Bucky realizes with a jolt that it's thick with fear. His dom is trying to talk him through this without any idea what condition Steve is in.

Familiar shame dampens the rage to a muffled roar; of course he let himself be distracted when all their lives were on the line. It doesn't matter that he'd predicted this weakness, instructed Tony what to do in case he lost himself. He'd wanted to be stronger for his doms.

He wants to close his eyes and feel them both beside him, strong and safe, ready to take his weight and wake him from this nightmare before it's too late, before he— But there's a mission. A plan. And he knows exactly what's next.

He yanks his gaze from Steve's prone body and focuses on the HYDRA doctor beside him, letting the rage pass through him without overwhelming him. This man _will_ pay, but first Bucky will ensure Steve's safety.

"He seems peaceful," Bucky finally tells the doctor in German, hoping Tony will understand and take it as reassurance.

"Yes, the sedatives are entirely efficacious. I understand your government has concerns over our precautions, but there is nothing to worry about."

Bucky forces a smile and pokes at the foul IV tubing, resisting the urge to rip it out and choke the doctor with it.

"How long have you been at the current level?" Even as Bucky poses the question, one of the monitors starts beeping faster; Steve is beginning to come around—perhaps roused by his submissive's voice.

The doctor curses. "Less than thirty minutes, but as you can see, the serum in his blood can be difficult to keep up with. Please, excuse me, I need to do my work here," he says, bumping Bucky aside.

Bucky stays in the man's way and raises his voice to say, "Splendid! I'd hoped to see your treatments in action. If there's no objection?" He looks back at the lieutenant, who has been talking with Natasha. "It will please my superiors to know that your measures are so thorough."

"Of course," the officer calls back confidently. "Show him whatever he wants to see. Let's have no more delays."

The doctor grunts and leans around him to see the monitors, taking readings from the various machines.

"So he is bound for your master," Bucky observes, keeping his voice loud. "To think, we may be some of the last to see Captain America alive."

He hears the shuffle of feet behind him as one of the guards sidles closer. No doubt the unconscious Avenger had ceased to be entertaining during the night, but Bucky hopes to intrigue them again.

 _\- "Tell me more about the shielding in this trailer," -_ Natasha is murmuring to the officer, audible now only through his earbud. She retreats to the doorway and touches the metal as though searching for wiring. She's in position. _\- "I'm curious how you are able to block tracking signals." -_

"You're in the way," the doctor snaps after several attempts to get around Bucky. "I need to adjust the dosage now." He points at the IV bag just out of reach.

"Oh, my apologies!" Bucky exclaims, and deliberately steps on the bundle of wires. The electrodes pull taut as he shuffles aside. He waits until the doctor is reaching for the knob on the bag before shifting his foot to yank them loose. 

Multiple machines start beeping urgently as the electrodes fall away from Steve's body.

"Is he waking up, doctor?" Bucky demands frantically, backing away.

The closest guard rushes past him to investigate while the doctor exclaims and checks the monitors.

Bucky pulls out his KA-BAR knife and steps silently behind the guard. He drives it between the guard's ribs, finding the man's heart even as the doctor stoops to grab at the wires on the floor. The guard dies silently and crumples. The knife is wrenched from Bucky's grip in the fall, but the confused noises from the equipment cover the sound of the body hitting the floor.

The doctor is still cursing, oblivious, so Bucky spares a glance for the other guards. Both are already face down, two of Natasha's knives winking from their backs.

Natasha herself has the lieutenant in a chokehold. The officer is flailing, but his struggles are nearly silent. 

Satisfied that only one threat remains, Bucky turns back to see the doctor reaching through the bars to replace the electrodes. He closes on the man in mindless fury. _Like hell is this bastard ever touching Steve again._

He seizes the man by his lab coat and spins him around. Before the doctor can even begin to protest, Bucky's hand closes over his mouth, thumb and fingers digging into his cheeks, silencing him. One quick push slams his head back into the bars.

"Don't _touch_ him!" Bucky snarls, and yanks the doctor forward only to pound his head back again, the sound a satisfyingly visceral combination of unyielding steel and organic matter. The man is stunned but still standing, and Bucky pulls him forward again, baring his teeth to whisper, "You'll never touch anyone again." He squeezes tighter, wishing for his bionic arm, which could have ripped the jaw right from the HYDRA's face. He'll have to make do, though, and he grunts as he slams the man's skull into the bars again and again and ag—

"That's enough," Natasha is saying in English, sliding her cool hand over Bucky's.

He gasps and jerks away from her touch. The doctor tumbles limply to the floor beside the two dead guards. There's blood on the collar of his white lab coat, but the head trauma doesn't look fatal. Bucky narrows his eyes and reaches for his pistol.

"He's done. Don't be stupid," she says, stilling his hand. " _Think_. Why are we here?"

"Steve," Bucky replies automatically. Like a talisman, the name washes the anger away as though it'd never existed. 

He turns back to the cell, and his world shrinks to just his dom before him. He sees past the blood, the chains, the sinister IV still violating his forearm, and inhales sharply. 

He's _beautiful_.

 _\- "Talk to me" -_ Tony begs, apparently unable to wait any longer. _\- "How is he? Is he okay?" -_

Bucky watches lines appear between Steve's brows. "He's waking up," he murmurs, stepping closer. He could reach through the bars and finally, finally touch that perfect skin. "He's so..."

Natasha pulls him away before he can make contact. "Focus!" she snaps, moving to block his view.

"Steve—" he starts, but she's pushing at him now, hands fisted in his uniform to balance him as she backs him over the bodies on the floor.

"You can't afford the distraction," she's saying. "You're not done yet."

Bucky pushes against her, convinced he can't afford to lose sight of his dominant for even a second. "No, but he's—"

"He's safe now. He's safe, and he's going to be okay, and that's all you need to know right now." 

"But—"

Tony takes a deep breath in his ear and says, _\- "She's right." -_

"Please, Tony!" Bucky pleads unashamedly, begging his dom's permission coming as easy as breathing. "I have to go to him."

_\- "You still have work to do, tiger. You've done so well, but Steve's not safe yet." -_

Startled, Bucky spins to look at the wide-open door of the truck. No one's in sight, but there are still HYDRA soldiers out there. They're anything but safe at the moment.

"God," he breathes, aghast at how completely he'd forgotten the mission.

"I'll look after the Captain," Natasha says, loosening her pistol in its holster.

"I could—"

"You'd stare moonily into his eyes, and you'd both still be in here 30 minutes from now." 

Her fond smile takes some of the sting out of her words, but Bucky still ducks his head, flushing with shame at the truth. The last few minutes are nothing but a blur of rage and _Steve_ ; he hadn't been thinking clearly at all. 

He catches another glimpse of the bodies at their feet and shudders at the memory of the rage that had driven him to such violence. Even despite everything HYDRA'd done to them for years, he'd never had such a visceral desire to bathe in an enemy's blood. Does he really have that in him?

"Bucky."

"Yeah," he whispers, dragging his hand up over his face and tugging strands of hair loose from their queue. _Focus._

She touches his arm. "Stop. You planned for this. You remember?"

He exhales shakily and nods, though it's not quite the truth. He'd planned the systematic assassination of the guards, had cold bloodedly weighed their lives against Steve's and found them wanting. He'd even predicted that he'd be distracted by his dom's presence. But he hadn't expected the berserker-like fury. He can feel an echo of it even now when he thinks of returning to the cell and ripping the chains off of his dominant. 

His stomach turns in horror. He'd thought he was monstrous before. Are there truly greater depths for him to sink to?

"Then stop beating yourself up for it. Go. Your head will be clearer once you're out of here." 

"Tasha—" he fumbles, achingly grateful for her guidance when he's so lost.

"I'll watch his back and get him on his feet. We'll meet you out there as soon as we're able," she says, pushing him toward the door. "Go make it safe."

He nods, straightening his shoulders.

There's a groan from behind them, and then Steve's voice, faint, "—cky? B— Bucky?"

Bucky's steps falter as that beloved voice cracks him wide open. Steve is awake. Steve is so close, is _right there_. He could turn and—

And he hasn't survived this tearing ache in his chest for the past year without becoming adept at self-denial, at doing what needs to be done. He'd done his best to protect his companions all that time, and there's still work to be done. Steve's not safe yet, and Bucky's sworn to protect him.

"No," he says, forcing himself to look out the door of the trailer. There are more lives in the balance, more to pay for his dominant's safety. What he wants—what the _bond_ makes him want—is immaterial. He needs to be a weapon right now, and for Steve, he can be that.

There's another groan, the clink of keys in Natasha's clever hands, but he doesn't turn around. A few quick steps bring him to the mouth of the truck, and he squints out cautiously.

 _\- "He's clear," -_ Natasha reports.

She must have been talking to Tony, because his other dom's voice is back in his ear. _\- "So good, you're doing so good, sweetheart. You can do this—" -_

"I'm okay," Bucky says, trying to stop the flow of words. He can't bear to hear Tony praise him for what he's just done, for what he's about to do in Steve's name. He tries to focus on the larger view. "How are we doing? Anyone incoming?" 

_\- "Not a soul. No one's stirring from either the base or Doom's patrols, and those border guards are still unconscious." -_

"How about your ETA? Steve's still going to need transport."

There's a pause, but Bucky doesn't apologize. 

Finally Tony reports, _\- "I'm 16 minutes out. I'm bringing transportation for anyone that wants it." -_

"Fantastic. Time to get the agents, then. Clint? Anyone on the move?"

_\- "Negative. They've finished unloading the agents, but otherwise they're still where you left them." -_

Bucky jumps down to the asphalt and peers around the corner of the trailer, along the driver's side of the truck. No one is lurking on the edge of the road, and he can make out the driver's sideburns in the side mirror.

He takes a moment to adjust his pistol in the holster and straighten his uniform. He runs his hand over his hair, smoothing the strands he'd pulled free of the ponytail; it's not perfect, but it no longer needs to stand up to close scrutiny.

_\- "I see five prisoners. Still chained together, though I'd guess a couple of them have gotten out of the cuffs by this point. They're starting to look restless; I think they're gonna try something if you wait much longer. Four guards on the ground—two with semis, two rifles. There's another jackass leaning out of the second cab, covering the box with a submachine. Idiot's seen too many movies. Dunno what the driver's carrying." -_

"Got it. How do they look?" he asks, stepping around the side of the truck. The driver spots him in the mirror, but Bucky ignores him, striding past him toward the space between the vehicles.

 _\- "Guards are all bunched up with the agents," -_ Clint says. _\- "Space 'em out for me." -_

"Can do," Bucky replies, pasting a sneer on his face as he rounds the cab to face the assembled guards and prisoners.

The situation is just as Clint described, with the confused knot of prisoners and guards standing between the vehicles, surveilled by the watchful driver and guard up in the cab. 

Two of the guards swing weapons in his direction, the late morning sun glinting on the barrels. He ignores the threat.

"What is this?" he demands in his most imperious tone, swaggering into the open area. "Their faces are still in shadow! This is the cooperation your lieutenant promised? No, turn them. Into the light!"

The guards look up into the sky and then squint back down at the agents, then at Bucky, uncertain.

"Exactly! Like this, you see!" He marches up to the closest prisoner and pushes her shoulder, turning her to face the sun. Her expression stays stony, her furious gaze locked on him even as she squints against the light.

He points authoritatively. "Spread them out in a line, facing this way. I want to see their faces clearly." 

Around him, weapons lower as the men holding them start to shove the stubborn prisoners into the new formation. The chains linking the agents' hands present a problem, and the gun barrels drift even lower as the guards are forced to manhandle the prisoners in order.

"Now or never," Bucky breathes over the clinking of chains, reaching toward his pistol.

_\- "Now!" -_

Even as Bucky draws, there's the crack of a rifle. The guard in the second cab drops dead, body dangling from the window.

Bucky doesn't look, instead focusing on making his own shots perfect as the guards start to react.

One HYDRA goes down with Bucky's bullet between his eyes. The man beside him is just raising his sidearm when Clint's second shot rips through his throat, dropping him in a spray of blood.

The SHIELD agents crouch and dodge away in a tight grouping as the next guard spins toward Bucky, firing wildly. Bucky tracks his movement coolly, exhaling on the trigger and watching him fall bonelessly, one eye now a hollow, eyeless socket.

The last guard is still confused, just beginning to train his gun on the fleeing hostages when Clint's third shot drops him.

Bucky has only a moment to breathe before Clint's bark of _\- "Driver!" -_ He flings himself against the front bumper of the truck just instants before gunfire erupts from the cab above him.

"Jesus, _he's_ got a machine gun, too?" he pants. He scans the clearing, but there's no sign of the agents. They must have taken cover beside the front truck.

Glass shatters above him as the driver clears out his windshield. He's probably reaching forward, trying for an angle down over the engine.

Bucky presses closer to the bumper and braces his pistol.

"Little help here, Clint!"

_\- "Working on it. The bastard's got great cover. Come out, come out, little snake...." -_

There's another barrage of automatic fire, this time chewing at the edge of the hood. Bucky ducks even lower and starts to creep toward the passenger side. He presses his forearm to his ear, trying to push the earbud deeper to hear over the chatter of the weapon.

 _\- "Hang on, here he—" -_ The sharp report of a rifle drowns Clint out, and the driver's weapon falls silent. - _"Gotcha!" -_

"Is the other driver still in place?" Bucky asks, standing warily. He tucks his used pistol back into the holster and draws the still-full backup from his belt. He can't risk approaching along the driver's side, and even the passenger side will be risky. "Can you shoot out the passenger side mirror on my word?"

 _\- "Don't have to." -_ There's an abbreviated burst of automatic fire from the direction of the front cab, followed by a single, sharp yell. _\- "The SHIELD agents just took care of him." -_

"Resourceful, aren't they?"

_\- "Maybe not completely useless." -_

Bucky takes a moment to tally the dead. The front driver. His passenger had been the officer. The four guards in the trailer with the hostages. The driver and passenger of the second cab. Three guards in the back, and the officer (unconscious) and the doctor (unknown) still with Natasha and Steve.

All those bodies, yet he can't even bring himself to feel anything more than a kind of numb resignation. There's no doubt in his mind that Steve is worth it.

Once again his dom's name is enough to distract him from his morbid thoughts, and he's just starting to wonder if Steve has opened his cerulean eyes when he's yanked back to the present by Clint's urgent gasp.

 _\- "Aww, shit! Incoming! Fall back, Buck! Get to Tash! I'll try to hold 'em off." -_ There's a scramble of movement on the comms.

"What? Clint!" He crouches, pistol raised defensively even as he tries to figure out what he'd missed. Was there a trailing vehicle, something Tony hadn't noticed on the satellite? He hadn't heard anything approaching, but he'd lost time back in the trailer with Steve. Jesus, he'd led them into a trap after all. Natasha's pinned down with an incapacitated Steve, and Clint's isolated; he'll never forgive himself if any of them are hurt. 

Something moves in his peripheral vision, and he spins, pistol leaping up to aim at the threat.

_Fuck._

A SHIELD agent steps around the rear of the front truck. The Uzi in her hands—doubtless taken from the HYDRA driver—is pointed right at Bucky.

"Whoa!" he cries. "This is a rescue op!"

"Call off your sniper and lower your weapon!" she orders, while the other four agents, unchained, rush past her, ducking to stay below her line of fire. They swarm over the lifeless guards, seizing their weapons and falling back to flank their leader.

Most of the guns are now trained on Bucky, but he goes cold when he realizes that one of the rifles is aimed directly at Clint's nest. 

"Clint!" he whispers desperately.

"I said drop it!"

Bucky keeps his gun on her as he tries to subtly make contact with Clint. "I need to hear your voice, buddy. Tell me you're okay." If Clint is in trouble and these people get in his way, he'll fight his way through all of them without blinking.

 _\- "I'm okay," -_ Clint pants. _\- "Had to ditch my perch." -_

"But there's no one else? HYDRA or....?"

_\- "Naw, just your friends there. Geez, they're pissed, huh?" -_

Bucky tunes back into the agents' gabbled shouts, making out their meaning:

"He's a goddamn terrorist. One of HYDRA's Three." 

"Fuck! Those murderers?" 

"That sniper's out there, and you know there's still another one. The girl in the uniform."

"Where the hell's Cap? You think they—"

The dark-skinned lead agent takes a step forward. Her face is still filled with hate, and her hands are steady on the Uzi. "Lower your weapon and bring out your accomplices." 

They're trying to _arrest_ him, Bucky realizes. He's pictured this moment countless times over the past year on the run, the three of them backed into a corner by HYDRA or the authorities, no way free but through. The one consistent element of all of these nightmares had always been Bucky going down in a hail of bullets to get the others to safety. No matter what form their reckoning took, it's the one thing he could say for certain—that he'll never give Clint and Tasha up. He licks his lips and tightens his hand on the Glock. Fifteen rounds against their five weapons. Maybe Clint could—

_\- "Tasha, you've got to get him out here now! Bucky's a sitting duck!" -_

_\- "Working on it!" -_ she grunts, coming briefly online, and Bucky hears movement but can't place it. _\- "He's conscious, but it's gonna take another few minutes to get him mobile. Come on, Captain, we have to move **now**!" - _

_\- "Stark, can't you call them off or something?" -_

_\- "They were prisoners; HYDRA clearly took their comms," -_ Tony points out before continuing urgently, _\- "Sweetheart, please, listen to me. It's going to be alright, just—" -_ but he's drowned out by Clint.

_\- "I swear to god, Buck, I've got your back, but you cannot drop your weapon, okay? Promise me! I'm getting you out of this, just do **not** drop your gun!" - _

Bucky's about to give him an affirmative but suddenly freezes.

 _Why_ not _drop his gun?_

These agents aren't his enemy, they aren't _HYDRA_. The HYDRA personnel are all accounted for. Even if more of the bastards show up soon, the agents are armed now and have proven they can handle themselves. 

Steve will be safe with them. Bucky's work here is done.

And the others are safe. Natasha is out of sight and can slip away before they find her in the truck, and Clint has already shifted to a new nest. The two of them can escape without much pursuit.

Finally, _finally_ , it's just Bucky at risk. He stifles a sob at the abrupt relief, like an enormous weight has just been lifted off his shoulders. He'd spent years wishing for this opportunity, a moment when no one else was at risk, nothing else to tip the scales in favor of violence. He's made horrible choices—probably worse than what most people would have chosen—but always to _protect_ the people he loves. And now, with no one else at stake, he can finally make the right call.

"Don't make me repeat myself!"

He flinches, disgusted to realize he's still pointing a gun at her, that threatening violence has become a knee-jerk reaction.

He opens his grip on the pistol, watches as it spins around his trigger finger for a moment before slipping free, clattering to the pavement at his feet.

 _\- "Motherfuck," -_ Clint gasps.

Bucky can't help smiling. The relief is so sharp, it's like ecstasy. If he can stand unarmed before the authorities and take his punishment, then there must still be something good in him. No matter what Mentallo tried to make him into, he can't be a monster—not deep down. He used to fight for what was right; maybe the last few years haven't completely destroyed that.

The other four SHIELD agents step closer, still wary. The two in the rear are looking over their shoulders at Clint's former nest.

"On your knees," she orders, kicking his gun into the ditch and then backing away.

Bucky's hackles rise instinctively at the command, but he fights down the automatic defiance. It's a practical request; of course they can't trust him. And despite everything he hates about kneeling, all the twisted, shameful memories it evokes, he can do this. He'd always known punishment would come for him in one form or another. What's one more humiliation?

He lowers himself to the ground, ignoring Clint's outraged cursing. As his knees hit asphalt, he's reminded of the first time he'd willingly fallen to his knees for Mentallo. He'd been begging the telepath to spare the others, to punish Bucky alone for what he'd done. It'd been in vain; it'd always been in vain.

He shakes off the memory and meets the agent's gaze impassively. Now that the others are safe, he'll gladly submit to the consequences alone.

"You are a wanted terrorist. You are hereby under arrest for the bombings of Naples, Krakow, and the Élysée Palace Peace Summit; assassinations in Sendai and Esjberg; and more crimes to be identified upon incarceration."

The agents grow restless as his deeds are named, looking over their shoulders more conspicuously, and Bucky smiles grimly. The SHIELD agents would have had good reason to be afraid of HYDRA's Three. If this had happened while they were still in Mentallo's thrall, he has no doubt Clint and Natasha would have long since gunned the enemy down and freed him. 

As it is, Clint is making choked noises of rage. _\- "I'm going to kill every last one of these assholes. Who the hell do they think they are?" -_

 _\- "You're not helping," -_ Natasha tries, but he keeps going.

_\- "We don't kneel for anyone. Not anymore. What gives these self-righteous bastards the right to—" -_

_\- " **Bože moj**. Stark, do something. You must have something these people will respond to." - _

"Put your hands on your head," the woman orders, "and tell us where Captain America is."

Bucky freezes. Both demands are a minefield. He can only raise one arm; he doubts these agents have the patience for an explanation about his deactivated bionics. But if they go rushing into the other trailer and find Natasha with a barely coherent Steve, there's no predicting how they might overreact.

"He's fine," he says, attempting to stall, but his words just seem to rile them up.

"I bet these bastards were after him," the man to the right of the lead agent growls. "Cold-blooded, murdering scum." 

Bucky shoots him a measuring glance, wondering whether this will be the agent who loses his cool first.

The agents had been ambushed in the night and lost a few of their own, and they've just spent hours trussed up in the back of a HYDRA convoy, destined for death or the kind of slavery Bucky is all too familiar with. They're understandably on edge, particularly to find themselves face to face with a mass murderer, the whereabouts of his accomplices unknown. This agent could hold a grudge for any of Bucky's exploits. His finger could slip on the trigger and be written off as an unfamiliar-weapon malfunction. 

"We're here to rescue him—and all of you—from HYDRA."

"Bullshit!" the twitchy agent explodes. "It's just another trap, Amador. We can't trust this terrorist. I say we terminate him now and find the Captain."

"Leighton!" Agent Amador snaps, not taking her eyes off Bucky. The man takes a step back reluctantly. "If you're the cavalry," she says in a weighted tone, "then you have no reason not to comply with my orders. Now, hands up, and tell us what you've done with the Captain."

Clint is mumbling a breathless string of curses in his ear.

Any minute now the agents are going to split up and send a search party to investigate the other trailer. Distracting them is a risk, but he hasn't heard anything to signal that Natasha's gotten clear yet. He raises his good arm and places it atop his head. 

"The other one doesn't work so well, ma'am," he says with a smirk designed to provoke.

"She said put your hands on top of your head, asshole!" Agent Leighton barks, advancing to loom over Bucky. 

The muzzle of the man's semiautomatic is cold where it presses against Bucky's forehead.

Bucky shuts his eyes and forces himself to keep still. Despite every muscle in his body primed to defend himself, he will _not_ hurt these people. Even if the worst happens, it's still no better than what he deserves. And if keeping Natasha safe is the last thing he ever does, it will have been the right thing. If she'd just _move_ already.

"That's fucking enough!" Clint's shout fills the air, startling everyone.

Bucky groans, the familiar tension returning in a rush. Of course Clint would thrust himself into the line of fire for him. His heart overflows with affection even as he curses his friend's boundless loyalty.

"Everybody back off," Clint orders, striding into the clearing with a pistol in each hand, aiming at the two agents threatening Bucky.

His arrival sets off a flurry of movement as the agents shift their positions. Amador and Leighton keep their guns trained on Bucky, but the other three sidestep and pivot to brandish their weapons at Clint as he takes up an unprotected position near the passenger side of the second cab.

"Drop your weapons, or we _will_ open fire," Amador grates.

"Look, I've been real understanding about all the guns pointed at my friend so far. You guys had a shitty night, I get that. But I'm just about out of patience. One more threat and you're not going to like what happens."

Leighton abandons Bucky to aim his gun in Clint's direction, but Amador's Uzi stays trained on Bucky. He grudgingly admires her nerves.

"Clint, get the hell out of here!" he orders, not looking away from her.

"Not gonna happen, Bucky. These ungrateful dicks aren't laying another hand on you."

"You are both under arrest—"

"Christ on a fucking cracker, lady! Do I look like I respect your authority? We're not even here for you."

All the agents bristle at the reminder, and Amador goes a little wild around the eyes. "Where is he?" she demands, shoving her gun closer to Bucky's face.

 _\- "Bucky, can you hear me?" -_ Tony's voice is tight with worry. _\- "Tell them this." -_ He rattles off an alphanumeric code.

"Three-six-november, juliett-foxtrot-six-one-six, mike-charlie-uniform," Bucky repeats, praying his dom knows what he's doing.

Most of the agents look confused, and someone snorts. "What the hell is that supposed to be?"

But Amador tilts her head and eyes Bucky suspiciously. "That's Director Fury's own stand-down code."

"I know," Bucky says, lying through his teeth. _Damn, Tony's good._ "Who do you think authorized this rescue?"

"SHIELD doesn't negotiate with terrorists."

"You're currently 25 kilometers from Baron Zemo's base," Clint snarks, and several agents glance around at the countryside, wide-eyed. "I think your director would have negotiated with the devil himself to keep Stark safe."

"I swear to god you're testing my patience. _Where is Captain America?_ "

"Let my friend here go, and I'll tell you," Bucky says. "Clint, get Tasha and get the hell out of here."

"Fuck off."

Bucky ignores him, urgently looking up at Amador. "Once he gets clear, I'll lead you right to Captain Stark."

"Why should we let a single one of you out of our sight?"

"Because you don't get to have them. You can have me, I'll come along peacefully, but the others go free." He tries to ignore the way the comms are suspiciously silent. He can practically feel Natasha's glare, but he's always done whatever it took to protect her and Clint; they had to know this was coming. All they have to do is follow his lead.

"That isn't a deal you get to make, Bucky." Clint says, carefully moving closer, one foot over the other, pistols still trained on the agents. "If any of you so much as touches him, I'll end you all myself."

Clint's threat sets the agents off again, and Bucky's surrounded by shouting and the flash of sunlight off of brandished weapons. 

With a sinking feeling, he realizes that there's no salvaging this situation. All three of them are too deeply scarred to ever truly be free; they resort to violence too readily, because it's the only thing that's kept them safe for years. They'll never let him go, and he loves them for it at the same time that he despairs for them all.

" _Stop!_ "

The command hits him like an electric shock. A shivery warmth takes up residence in his stomach, and he can feel the drop opening up below him, intoxicating and inviting. But he reminds himself that he can't give in to it just yet; he has to see for himself that his dom is safe. He shakes off the compulsion with a shudder and turns to find the source of that well-known voice. 

Steve stumbles into view supported by Natasha. Bucky's dimly aware of the agents lowering their weapons and shifting around him, but all he can see is his dom.

Steve's uniform is still bloodied and torn, and he's obviously still unbalanced from the sedatives, but those details pale in comparison to the way his eyes brighten when they land on Bucky, the way his wide, relieved smile turns to awe.

"Bucky," he says softly, reaching toward him. He's so big, so strong, and Bucky can feel the power in his voice even now. He wants Steve so badly, wants to lose himself in that voice, those loving arms. It'd be so easy to just give in. Already Bucky can feel his worries slipping away, everyone around them disappearing, replaced by the overwhelming presence of his dominant.

It's too much, too sudden. He doesn't have a defense against this kind of assault. He can't—he can't just give in like this; he can't _have_ Steve. But it's too late, it must be; how can he possibly hope to escape now? 

His own terrified whimper shocks him, and he stumbles to his feet, heedless of the weapons around him. He wants to run to Steve and throw himself at his feet. He wants to _run_. He wavers, torn between the conflicting impulses, and finally takes a step backwards with a choked sob.

Immediately Clint is there, hands on Bucky's shoulders, pulling him away. "It's okay, it's okay, I've got you."

Half-blind, Bucky cranes his neck, still frantic for a glimpse of his dom. 

Steve's eye are wide with dismay, and his dom staggers forward, but Natasha bars his way, shoving against his chest. 

She's saying something to him, talking low and urgent. Bucky only catches the word "choice," but whatever she says makes Steve blanch and fall back a step.

"No. Steve," Bucky whispers, distressed for him, but he's helpless to resist as Clint drags him around the far side of one of the trucks.

 _\- "Please, no. Please, Bucky, don't run. Please just let us—" -_ Tony's pleading cuts off abruptly as Clint rips out Bucky's earbud.

"Can't they leave you alone for even a minute?" Clint growls. "Shut up, Stark!" He drops his own ear piece.

" _No_ ," Bucky says again, but he can't seem to raise his hand to stop his friend. Everything is too loud, too fast. There's a roaring in his ears, a jumble of sound like his name repeated over and over in those two beautiful voices.

"Stay with me, Buck. Just for a little while." Clint pushes him against something hard and holds his face in both hands. "I need you to listen to me, okay? Can you do that? Can you hear what I'm saying?"

"He needs me—" he mumbles, still achingly conscious of his dominant's proximity. Every other consideration slides away from his grasp.

"He's okay. He's on his feet, and he's with the agents now. He's safe—they're all safe."

Bucky focuses on Clint, trying to make sense of his words. There was something important, something he had to do.

"You didn't lose a single one. I'm so proud of you, buddy. You did it."

"We did it, _solnyshko,_ " Natasha corrects, and Bucky blinks. He hadn't seen her approach. "Almost no thanks to you. What were you thinking, walking into that?"

"They had a gun in his fucking face!" Clint exclaims. "How was I supposed to ignore that?"

Bucky registers his surroundings slowly. They're alone at the moment, leaning against the driver's side of one of the truck trailers. He doesn't see Steve or any of the SHIELD agents, but he can hear them moving around nearby, probably double checking the bodies of the HYDRA soldiers. There's a noise from directly behind his head, inside the trailer, and he realizes some agents must be searching the truck where Steve had been held.

He shivers with alarm. Steve's presence had overwhelmed him completely. He'd been helpless in that clearing, at the mercy of his dominant and unable to protect his friends.

It's a terrifying thought, and he looks around frantically. They're hopelessly exposed, with only the truck for cover. Clint and Natasha aren't even on guard. They're entirely focused on Bucky and each other, arguing about something he can't concentrate on.

He's gotten them _caught_. There's no escape plan. Part of him is relieved to finally have the choice taken out of his hands, but he stomps it down. He led them into this, and now all three of them will be taken prisoner. He was meant to protect them, not sacrifice them for someone he wants more. It hurts like a bullet in his gut; nothing was ever supposed to be more important than them.

There has to be something he can still do, a way to get them out of here safely. Steve's out there waiting for him. Bucky doesn't know what Natasha said to make him back off, to buy them this time, but there's no way Captain America would miss any attempt at departure. ...Not if Bucky tried to go with them.

He can send them away. The agents are still dealing with their captors; doubtless they've found the unconscious officer and the doctor. Any who aren't in the truck will be with Steve, and Bucky can distract all of them if he presents himself now. Clint and Natasha can slip away unnoticed before Iron Man arrives.

He looks at their beloved, bickering faces and feels a wrenching deep inside. They're so dear to him, it's impossible to imagine a life without them. He owes them everything, has never deserved their kindness. They'd protected him from the very start, giving him patient advice while he'd called them filthy collaborators. They'd forgiven him when Mentallo punished them for his rebellions. And even after the worst, when he'd done the unspeakable and lost all hope, they'd both held him as he fell to pieces, as though his defiance hadn't brought it on them all. They're an integral part of him, and he'd never thought to willingly say goodbye.

"—for the humvee on my say so. Are you ready, Buck?"

"I...what?" he blinks, confused.

Natasha sighs. "You're getting out of here. We'll create a distraction while you take the humvee."

"Are you crazy? No! You can't!"

"Tasha found some explosives in the back of the truck," Clint explains. "Don't worry, we'll make sure no one's actually hurt in the blast."

He can't believe his ears. "You can't expect me to just leave you. No, I won't let you sacrifice yourselves for me. I meant what I said; those agents don't get to have you."

"Bucky..." Clint starts, and he looks embarrassed.

"We're going in," Natasha says bluntly.

"What?"

"We're turning ourselves in. To SHIELD," Clint explains, and Bucky stares at him in disbelief. "We've been on the run for a year now, and it really kinda sucks. I want to take a hot shower and eat real food."

"Sleep in a real bed," Natasha adds readily, as though this is something she and Clint have discussed at length. "For more than a couple days at a time."

"I mean, we just saved Captain fucking America, not to mention a truck full of SHIELD agents. They'll have to listen to our side of things now. Our chances will never be better than this."

"But you said you'd never go in, that we could never trust the world to understand."

"The world won't want to, but there are laws to protect collared subs. We've all got a perfectly valid defense, and I bet the Starks will speak for us." Natasha looks uncharacteristically comfortable with the prospect of trusting someone else to fight her battles.

Bucky jerks, appalled. The idea of his doms hearing an itemized list of his crimes and realizing what he's truly capable of is something that's haunted his nightmares. And for faceless authorities to have such ammunition against Clint and Natasha—the thought makes him nauseous.

"No, no, if they learn the truth—"

"What, that we were prisoners? That we acted on orders we couldn't afford to disobey? I'm pretty sure they know that."

"We're killers!" he cries. There's no forgiveness for what they are. No legal loophole can rehabilitate them in the eyes of the world. "Look what we just did. We can't blame that on orders."

"Everyone we killed today was HYDRA scum. You think SHIELD wouldn't shoot to kill to rescue their own people? This body count isn't on us." Clint narrows his eyes. "Or on you."

They can't possibly believe their words. They don't believe in a pardon—or else why run so hard for so long? There's something in their expressions, Bucky sees now, something they're not saying. They're staring him down, trying to feign confidence, and he can't let them do this. Not when his own fate is already assured. Even without the overpowering presence of one of his dominants, he knows his time is up. He's known it for the past week.

"No. Trials, prison—I won't put you through that. _I'm_ the one trapped here. You were right, I do need them. I can't function without them. I'll stay and create the distraction, get you both away safely."

"You're _not_ trapped," Natasha snarls, seizing his jaw, fierce like she hadn't been a moment ago. "There's still the other plan. I know you hate the idea, but it's worth a shot. They'll never touch you—that's what we promised, remember? If you're really afraid of them..."

"I..." Bucky starts, but finds it harder than ever to tell the lie.

"Are you? Are you afraid of them, or do you want to be with them?" She keeps him pinned and leans in to study his face intently.

"Seems to me he's in love with them," Clint says mildly.

Bucky shuts his eyes and tries to turn away, too guilty to face them.

"I thought as much." Her voice is hard, but her grip gentles, fingers sliding up to brush his temple. "You've been lying to us for quite some time now."

"Were you ever afraid of them, Buck?" Clint asks. "Or were you—what—just pitying us? Letting us drag you all over the world while you went comatose out of loyalty?"

"No, I _belong_ with you! I wasn't about to abandon you." It's not quite the whole truth. He'd traded away his very humanity for them, surrendered his future to keep them safe. There's no other life for him.

"You've got a home waiting for you. You don't belong on the run like us."

The rebuke stings, and his hurt must show in his face, because Natasha snorts. "Don't be a fool, _lapushka_ , of course we want you with us. But we want you safe even more."

"You brought me with you," he points out, the closest he's ever come to addressing the choice they'd taken from him that day.

"You were hurt and dropped then. The bond had such a grip on you, you didn't even know where you were. It wouldn't have been your choice; it was just the bond. We all swore we'd never be enslaved again. How could we have left you there in that condition? And besides, you would have blamed us for leaving you—and you'd have hated yourself for staying behind."

Bucky can't deny Clint's assessment of his early mindstate. But things had changed quickly once he started speaking with the Starks. The trust they'd inspired in just a few short phone calls had been startling. He'd gladly have gone to them months ago if he'd dared to think he could ever deserve something so good.

"But it's killing you now, Buck. And if you're just punishing yourself, we can't let you keep going."

"It's time to be honest," Natasha says, tapping his cheek to get his attention. "Do you want them?"

"It doesn't matter what I want—I can't _have_ them. They're heroes, and I'm— _ouch!_ "

Clint eases off the pinch on Bucky's ear. "I hate it when you talk about yourself like that. You're a goddamn prince."

"I don't deserve them," he insists. Clint opens his mouth to protest but he forges on, "I _don't_ , Clint. You know orders can't waive away everything I've done. Bad enough what they saw today; they'll find out everything, and once they learn what I really am, they'll...." _Reject me._

"Stop. No more words about what you think you do or do not deserve. It's time to say what you _want_."

He freezes.

He has no right to want anything. He'd surrendered it when he'd given up hope, given in to Mentallo and become everything the telepath wanted him to be.

He looks down at his empty hand and recalls the act of dropping his weapon. He makes a fist. Even if that moment of realization was true, even if there's still something left inside him that hasn't been completely twisted, he doesn't know how to begin to reach out. Despair has been the only safety he's known.

"Tasha and I are taking this chance. You don't have to stay; we have a plan to get you away if you want. We'll miss you like hell, Buck, but we won't decide for you anymore. You have to choose."

"I—" Bucky swallows. All the ways this could hurt him stretch before him like an insurmountable chasm—and he's not sure he's ready to throw himself off this cliff just yet. But the others are trying; after all this time, they still have _hope_. He tries again. "I want..."

"You know the answer to this," Clint urges. "We all know what the answer is. It's okay to say what you want, Bucky. It's okay to _want_."

He wants to be safe. He wants to be protected, loved, to know that he'll never be forced to hurt anyone ever again. He wants his doms' arms wrapped around him, their sweet words in his ears. He wants that as much as he's ever wanted anything.

Bucky inhales a deep, steadying breath.

"I want them," he says softly. "I want to go with them."

Clint lets out an excited whoop that has Bucky jerking in startlement. He stares, shocked to see Clint beaming.

"It's about time," Natasha agrees, drawing his attention to her as she squeezes his shoulder.

Bucky lets himself smile back, though he's still nervous about what comes next. "It won't be so easy, though. I mean, there's still SHIELD to deal with. The authorities. Probably a trial. I can't believe—you shouldn't have to risk that—"

"There's no danger with you there. Iron Man and Captain America will be on our side. The legal teams alone—"

"But you were going to do it without me," he protests. "How could you be so confident they'd stand by you?"

She rolls her eyes. "We wouldn't have left you, _dubiina_. But you had to make the choice for yourself. You've punished yourself long enough; we couldn't let you use us as an excuse anymore."

He gapes at her for a moment, then curses himself. He should know better than to underestimate her deviousness. "Were there even explosives in that truck?"

She smiles enigmatically and quirks an eyebrow.

They all pause as a strange rumbling noise fills the air. Bucky looks up and sees a pair of jets descending vertically out of the bright sky. He doesn't see Iron Man, but the suit's high-pitched whine is growing louder.

"Looks like our ride's here," Clint observes, stepping back to get a better view as the jets get closer, clearly preparing to touch down in the cornfield on the other side of the truck. They're an odd shape, and Bucky recognizes the model as identical to the Avengers' Quinjet. The plane on the right says "Stark One" on the underside of the wings, and the other has the SHIELD logo on its belly.

Tony'd promised to bring transport. Bucky can't help picturing the way his eyes will twinkle as he shows off the jets he'd designed himself.

Tony's _here_. Both of his dominants are here now. He's been anticipating and dreading this meeting for the past year, the moment of truth, time to test their promises of unconditional love and acceptance. And Bucky is wearing a uniform stripped off an unconscious man, his knees dusty from kneeling, and his hand sticky with blood and reeking of gunpowder. Could he have stacked the deck more thoroughly against himself?

"Stop overthinking it," she advises. She steps close and pulls the tie out of his disheveled hair, combing the overlong locks smooth with her fingers. "You want them, and they want you. Now go."

Bucky nods, grateful for her brusque care. He forces his reluctant feet to move, returning to the space between the trucks with trepidation. He looks around the corner of the truck warily.

Steve's turned away from him, and the shield now strapped to his back shows plenty of scorched damage to match his uniform. He's standing solidly, apparently recovered from the effects of the drugs he'd been given. The earlier anger flickers back to life in Bucky's chest, but he extinguishes it quickly with a glance at his own handiwork. The carnage has at least been organized; seven bodies in HYDRA uniform lie in a row. He carefully averts his eyes from the dark, wet spots on the asphalt. There's no sign of the SHIELD agents, and Bucky's forced to assume they're supervising the few survivors in the rear truck.

He follows Steve's gaze upward to find Iron Man descending the last few yards, arms spread with thrusters firing to slow his descent. His heavy boots touch the ground in front of Steve at the same time that the jets settle in the field behind him.

Clint snorts. "Showoff."

He turns, startled to find his companions flanking him. "Come to wish me luck?"

"Get your ass out there, James," Natasha says, shoving his shoulder. 

"Steve!" Tony cries, and Bucky looks back in time to see him drop his gauntlets and helmet as he strides to his husband. "Are you alright? Jesus, you look like hell." His hands are a blur as they rove all over Steve, clearly searching out his healed and remaining injuries. Tony's hair is a mess, and Bucky remembers that he'd thrown himself after Steve in a panic not two hours ago.

Their feelings for each other are unmistakable from where he stands, and he marvels that they'd want to bring someone like him into their pure, beautiful bond.

"I'm okay. Tony, he's _here!_ " Bucky's toes curl in pleasure at Steve's awestruck tone.

He misses Tony's response to that statement, overwhelmed by another rush of affection for his dominants. He loves them. All fear of rejection pales in comparison to the opportunity to hold them here and now. 

Bucky's just taking a wobbly step into the open when they turn in his direction. The way they beam at him when they spot him, their expressions so open and loving, nearly makes him stumble. He can't believe they're so pleased to see him. There isn't a trace of uncertainty or resentment in their faces, for all that he knows he's hurt them this past year. 

He's completely exposed now, defenseless; if they rushed at him, he could be captured so easily. But they stand patiently, waiting for him to approach in his own time. He sees Tony's hand close on Steve's sleeve, twisting in the sturdy fabric like he's clutching a lifeline.

"Uhh.... Hi," Bucky says lamely, as he crosses the distance between them. He almost can't believe the naked longing on their faces, except for how he feels the exact same thing squirming in his own chest. 

He concentrates on staying present in the moment, not losing himself in the bond. He thinks about Clint and Natasha waiting, about the bodies near them, and finds it surprisingly easy to keep the world from shrinking down to just the three of them. Maybe it's the presence of both of his doms at once, or maybe, now that he's made up his mind, the bond is loosening its chokehold, giving him breathing room to confront his doubts with a clear head.

He stops a few feet away, still shy of closing that final space. 

"You're really here," Tony says, a meltingly sweet smile on his face. He reaches out, and Bucky feels a flash of guilt for keeping himself just out of reach. Eventually Tony's hand drops.

"It's good to meet you," Steve croaks, looking stunned, and Bucky has to bite back a charmed smile at the formality after so many confidences shared over the phone.

"You said...if I ever wanted to come home..." He leaves the thought unfinished, unwilling to hold them to past promises—not with the evidence of his actions today on display around them.

"Yes! Please! Please, of course," Tony takes a step toward him, the whir of hydraulics and the thud of his heavy boot loud even in the open air.

"We want you to come home, Bucky," Steve says earnestly. "If you're ready."

"There are—" Bucky swallows, firming his resolve, hoping desperately that he isn't about to screw everything up. "There are things I've done that you don't know about. The choices I've made, the lives I've taken... I'm not innocent. I'm a—" 

He's surprised to find he can't say the word 'monster.' Not anymore. He takes a deep breath instead and continues, "You're not going to get a great sub out of me. Or even a great person. I don't want to disappoint you, but I'm not—you should know—" 

He lets out a sigh, gesturing toward his useless arm, the most visible trauma of the past few years, of the way HYDRA had invaded him, body and mind, and irrevocably twisted him for their horrifying purposes. A wry, sad smile touches his lips.

"I'm pretty fucked up, and it's not just all of this."

The outward scars aren't nearly the most broken thing about him. 

But the feeble attempt at humor falls flat as Tony blinks, seeming to notice for the first time how the limb just hangs dead. Bucky braces himself for their disappointment, but he's taken aback by Tony's blurted words.

"Did the bionics fail? Was it damaged? You were fine last year, when did it—? Oh my god, _I_ did this. It was the EMP, wasn't it? Oh Jesus, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize, I never meant to hurt you like this—"

"I'm fine, really." Bucky interrupts, a kneejerk reassurance. His dom is wide-eyed with distress, and Bucky's as shocked that Tony already seems to know about his bionic arm as he is by the fact that Tony would blame himself for something that Bucky had deliberately concealed.

But Tony's not listening. "I'll make it right, I swear. I'll fix it. What kind of jackass leaves bionics vulnerable to EMP? I'll build you a better one—please let me—the best arm in the world, with lasers and a goddamn flamethrower if you want—"

Overwhelmed by the full force of Tony's attention, Bucky finds himself blushing for the first time in years. He looks away and notices Steve watching him with a look he can't decipher. It's frustrating to know his dom's voice better than his expressions, but it's so good to finally see him, to know that he'll eventually learn to read Steve's face.

"Steve?"

"You came for me with just one arm," he says softly.

Bucky blinks. "How could I not?" He's astonished that his dominant— _Captain America_ —could value himself so cheaply.

Steve's smile is brighter than the sun above them, and Bucky can't help but light up in response.

"You're perfect," Tony groans. "God, you're so perfect. I want to give you the world."

"Don't say that," Bucky says, flinching at the unexpected accolade. "With the things I've done, I'm the furthest thing from perfect you'll ever find."

"You aren't to blame! How can you even think that? Those bastards had control of you," Steve insists.

His dom looks like he plans to continue in the same vein, and Bucky recoils. He'd tried to tell them before—multiple times. They'd persisted in spouting the same naive platitudes, and they're _still_ not listening, even when it's for their own good, even when he's trying to warn them. 

Tony must notice Bucky's agitation, because he cuts Steve off.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he says, ducking slightly to catch Bucky's gaze. His expression is so open, so gentle, his eyes flicking back and forth as he studies Bucky, trying to read his reactions. 

Bucky starts to soften despite himself, the fear losing its sharp edge. 

"We understand it'll take time. That it's complicated. But we want to listen. We want to earn your trust, to prove to you that nothing you've done matters to us. Will you give us that time? Give us a chance to prove ourselves?"

Tony sounds so reasonable, so earnest, that a dangerous hope creeps up on Bucky. He could give them a chance—give _himself_ a chance. It might work out. And if they do someday turn against him, at least he'll have had this much.

Whatever his expression is giving away has Steve reaching for him, large hand moving unerringly for his neck. Bucky startles, flinching away and wrapping his own hand protectively over his nape, every instinct screaming to hide it.

Steve snatches his hand back, clearly devastated, "Sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

Chagrined, Bucky scrambles to explain. "You didn't—. I'm sorry, it's just that we, uh..." he sighs. "When we got the collars off—. Your EMP, that's what set us free."

Tony nods encouragingly, but Steve still looks apprehensive.

"Well, we didn't exactly know any neurosurgeons, and the wires...." He stumbles to a stop when they stiffen. He looks away, ashamed.

"They've had their claws in you all this time?" Bucky is startled to realize that Steve is livid, his blood-streaked face contorted with fury as he glares to his left. Bucky follows his gaze and sees the HYDRA officer and doctor being carried, unconscious and bound, clear of the truck.

"Steve," he starts, unsure what to say.

His dom doesn't seem to hear him and takes a step toward them, radiating menace. 

Just days ago Steve had vowed to punish anyone who'd ever hurt him, and Bucky's heart had pounded at the fantasy come to life. He'd dreamed of this moment, of his doms exacting retribution from his captors, their wrath proof that they treasure him despite everything HYDRA did.

But this isn't a fantasy, and the prisoners are helpless. This isn't _Steve_ , he realizes, recognizing the same bloodlust that had come over him when he saw what the enemy had done to his dom. It's the incomplete bond making them wild, spurring them to stake a claim through violence. 

Some part of Bucky unclenches to learn that the blind rage with which he'd assaulted the doctor wasn't his own, but his heart breaks simultaneously for Steve. He doesn't know for sure what their bond may have driven Steve to do in the past year, but he can't have any more blood on his dom's hands—not for him.

"No, stop!" He reaches out to grip Steve's shoulder, and his hand meets bare skin. 

Steve freezes. He jerks his head around to gape at Bucky—and then, after a long moment, his eyes flutter shut with a contented sigh.

Bucky stares at the point of physical connection. He rubs his thumb back and forth experimentally, just a few millimeters. The heat seeps into his fingers and races up his arm, settling in his stomach and radiating outward. It feels like warmth and comfort; like quiet smiles just for him and a conviction that this is the place he really is meant to be.

It feels like _home_.

Steve leans into Bucky's touch with another sigh. It's intoxicating, all this power under Bucky's hand, thrumming through his whole body. He repeats the caress and shivers in tandem with his dom.

"Hey," Steve whispers.

Bucky looks up and can't resist smiling back when their eyes meet.

"We'll get them out," Tony is murmuring, so close now, and Bucky blinks at him, muzzy headed. "The best doctors in the world—nothing but the best. We'll take care of you, I swear." He reaches out slowly, holding Bucky's gaze the whole time. 

Bucky watches calmly, utterly certain that Tony would let him prevent the contact if he wanted. But he's unable to think of a reason he wouldn't crave that touch. The backs of Tony's fingers brush against his cheek, and he moans, eyes sliding closed. The world is reduced to the slide of warm skin under his hand and the shivery thrill of Tony's touch so near to where he wants it.

He hasn't willingly touched anyone but Tasha and Clint in years. Touching Steve's skin is decadent, a luxury more intoxicating than liquor, and the pleasure of being touched in return, the contact so welcome, so tender—he's lost in it.

He can have these men, he realizes in a dizzy rush, with their open arms and their open hearts, and they'll protect him, and he won't ever have to worry about anything again. The relief is so potent he feels giddy, floaty and free; if he'd known it would be this good he'd have come to them ages ago.

A faint clamor of unease threatens to disturb his high, but he can feel the drop yawning open below him again, and he reaches for it eagerly, helpless to resist the temptation. It's almost enough... _almost_....

"Don't rule out the flamethrower too quickly, okay?" Tony murmurs.

The joke startles a laugh out of Bucky even as it brings him to his senses. He knows he should be panicked at the near-drop, but he can't seem to mind when they're all so close, still touching, radiating and reflecting affection for each other. 

Plus, a _flamethrower?_

He grins, incandescent with love. "I'll think about it, Tony."

Tony inhales a sharp breath and pulls back slightly, his hand hovering inches from Bucky's skin. "So you'll come home?" he asks, want written plain on his face. "Let us take care of you?"

In that moment, it feels so possible. But the question is sobering. The incomplete bond is overwhelming up close, just as he'd known it would be. He'd been halfway under despite his best intentions, and even though they hadn't taken advantage of him, surely his doms are similarly affected. Are any of them thinking clearly? Is he making the right choice by trusting their words now, or is he succumbing to fantasy again?

"I...." He drops his hand from Steve's shoulder, instantly regretting the loss. He looks around for the others and finds them several yards away, leaning against the truck. Their poses are nonchalant, but their eyes are intent.

Steve must follow his gaze, because he raises his voice, every inch the national hero as he calls out to them, "We owe you both a debt we can never repay. If you ever need a favor, it's yours. For now, please consider yourselves under our protection."

They saunter over. Clint, having apparently gotten his hands on the HYDRA lieutenant's hat, wears it at a jaunty angle. Natasha's thumbs are tucked in the waistband of her stolen Latverian uniform. But Bucky sees through their false confidence to the wary hunch of their shoulders, the distrustful looks they can't help shooting the milling SHIELD agents that have circled closer.

Suddenly Bucky sees them through fresh eyes, how he imagines they must appear to the agents. Life on the run has been harsh; they both look gaunt and mean, like starved attack dogs. He wonders if he looks as dangerous, or whether his doms see some romanticized figment of their imaginations.

Doubt overwhelms him again. A single glimpse will reveal to the world how untrustworthy they are, how dangerous. They won't be allowed to plead their case. Even with the Starks' combined wealth and stature, the authorities might seize them all the moment they set foot in America. The blind allegiance of his doms may not be enough to protect them all from the world courts; if forced to make a choice, surely they would sacrifice his companions to save their submissive.

Natasha and Clint stop a couple feet away. She smirks at where Tony's still leaning close to Bucky.

Clint cocks an eyebrow and demands, "So we need protection now, is that it?"

Tony steps to Clint with a whir of hydraulics. He looks him square in the eyes and says, "Barton. I'm terrifyingly certain you don't need any such thing. But you have it anyway."

Clint grins, shark-like. "Could be nice to have a billionaire on speed dial."

"Kid, you've got no idea," Tony's answering smile is equally sharp.

"We've been working with the Director of SHIELD to clear your names."

Bucky startles and stares at Steve. His doms had been planning all this time to help _all_ of them? His heart leaps in his throat. Tony and Steve had been planning to defend Clint and Natasha despite not having a true-pair bond with them to cloud their judgment. If they can look objectively at what the others did and not reject them, then maybe Bucky has a chance after all. 

This time, when hope swells in his chest, he embraces it. 

Natasha snorts. "It's not that easy."

"True," Steve allows. "It'll take some time, but it _will_ happen. The important thing is to get you into custody where you'll be safe."

"Whose custody would that be?" Clint demands, eyes narrowed.

"Ours."

"SHIELD's," Steve corrects, ignoring the glare Tony shoots him. "Officially. But you'll be staying with us. We're not trying to split you three up."

Relief rushes through him, his last worry evaporating before he'd even voiced it to himself. They can stay together. He bites his lip to keep from pleading with the others to accept his dominants' offer.

After a long moment Natasha's mouth twitches in the slightest smile. Bucky sighs even as Clint rolls his eyes and says, "Fine."

Steve exhales shakily, finally betraying his nervousness, and Bucky finds his worry positively endearing. He catches Steve's hand. His dom's eyes close in happiness as Bucky laces their fingers together.

"We know they're your family, Bucky. No one's ever going to take them away from you." Tony promises, and reaches out again, curling his hand carefully around the nape of his neck with aching slowness. Bucky feels Tony flinch briefly when he touches the wires, but his dom gently continues on, threading his fingers between them until he's cupping Bucky's skin tenderly.

The contact is shockingly intimate. It feels as though his dom is protecting and accepting him where he's most vulnerable. It's exactly what he's longed for all these years. He shudders, pushing back into the caress, and Tony's breath hitches.

" _Please_ ," Bucky whispers. He's not even sure what he's asking for—just that he wants _more_.

"Soon, I promise," Steve touches his cheek with his free hand, and his voice is deeper, skirting the change, so _close_ to what Bucky needs.

"The prisoners are yours to deal with," Tony hoarsely tells the agents somewhere behind Bucky. "The SHIELD jet is pre-programmed to take you back to HQ."

"You'll want to hurry," Natasha adds slyly. "You don't want to be here when Zemo's reinforcements arrive."

There's cursing in several voices. Bucky would love to see the rescued agents' faces at the reminder, but he'll have Clint describe them later. For now he can't look away from his doms, who smile at him sweetly.

"We love you, Bucky," Tony says, the slightest bit of anxiety still haunting his voice. "With everything we are. Will you have us? Will you come home with us?"

Finally able to give the answer he's wanted to since that first, cataclysmic meeting, Bucky's voice is firm when he says, "Yes. Take me home."

Their faces crease with happiness, and he wonders how he could have ever thought he was unworthy, if he can bring such joy to his doms.

Steve squeezes his hand, tugging oh-so-gently to lead him toward the waiting jet. And Tony stays close at his other side, his touch a benediction on Bucky's neck, nothing like the weight of that accursed collar.

Bucky casts a look over his shoulder to ensure the others are following. Clint's head is ducked, just failing to hide his grin under the brim of the hat as he scoops up Iron Man's discarded helmet and gauntlets, immediately shoving one glove onto his hand. Tasha's face is its usual inscrutable mask, but her eyes are shining with pride.

He loves them so much he feels like he could burst. They've been through hell and back, but they've done it together. Somehow, despite all the torments Mentallo and HYDRA could devise, they're still capable of joy.

Bucky looks forward again at his new life, held securely in the hands of his dominants, who won't let go. It feels like he's been falling for years, but he's no longer worried about hitting ground. Now that he's been caught in the safety of warm arms, surrounded by the people who mean everything to him, he can finally see his way clear of the unending darkness and fear.

Now, he can _live_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  _Bože moj_ = My god  
>  _dubiina_ = idiot
> 
>  **Authors' Notes:**  
>  Thank you everyone who has taken this journey with us or who is just joining us!
> 
> The story of the Three's bid for freedom is finished, but many stories remain to be told in this 'verse. We've got so much more worked out, and we can't stop here with the characters' fates still uncertain, so we've set up a series. Look for backstory drabbles, mini future-fics, random artwork and at least one additional long, plot-driven story.
> 
> cinaea: This 'verse brought windswept and I together, and I can't say enough wonderful things about her world building, writing, and canny eye for critique. Thank you for letting me come play in your sandbox, bebe! I wouldn't be a writer without your inspiration!
> 
> windswept: Holy balls it's done. And through no fault of my own! :D Seriously, thank you guys who stuck with us through this, I'm frankly amazed you had the patience. It's very humbling to pick up a story after such a long hiatus and find out people still remember it. I may have started this crazy thing but it never, _ever_ would have gotten finished without cinaea, who basically bulldozed out the last few chapters (partly without me knowing =P) when I'd pretty much already given up, and poked and prodded and edited beautifully the whole way through. So make sure to drop her some lovin' in particular, especially since she declared at the beginning that she Definitely Wasn't A Writer. HAH. (I win.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [So They Kiss The Stars Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1403821) by [Duriansoya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duriansoya/pseuds/Duriansoya)




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